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UNIVERSITY 


LIBRARY 


I ) 


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A BOOK  DESIGNED  TO  AWAKEN  THE  AMERICAN  PEOPLE 


The  Curse  of  Drink 

OR. 

Stories  of  Hell’s  Commerce 


A Mighty  Array  of  True  and  Interesting  Stories  and  Incidents, 
Striking  Articles,  Touching  Home  Scenes  and  Tales  of  Tender 
Pathos,  all  Thrilling  with  Graphic  Details  and  Eloquent  Language 
of  the  Fearful  Consequences  of  the  CURSE  OF  DRINK 

by 

JOHN  G.  WOOLEY,  JOHN  P.  St.  JOHN,  ELI  PERKINS,  CHAS.  M.  SHELDON, 
DWIGHT  L.  MOODY.  CHAUNCEY  DEPEW,  R.  A.  TORREY,  SAM  JONES. 
HENRY  WARD  BEECHER,  JOHN  B.  GOUGH.  THEO.  L.  CUYLER, 

ADA  MELVILLE  SHAW,  T.  DeWITT  TALMAGE,  L.  A.  BANKS. 

GEN.  FRED  GRANT.  GEN.  SHERIDAN,  FRANK  BEARD, 

RUDYARD  KIPLING.  ELLA  WHEELER  WILCOX. 

WENDELL  PHILLIPS,  and  many  others. 


Also  containing  hundreds  of  Pointed  Paragraphs,  Inspiring  and  Stirring 
Temperance  Poems  and  Songs  portra)ang  tho  evils  of  the  Liquor  Habit 


Edited  by  Elton  R.  Shaw 


Special  Introduction  by 

SAMUEL  DICKIE 


Preadenl  of  Albion  CoDege»  Albion,  Michigan,  twelve  years  Chairman  Prohibition  Parly  National  Committee 


FULLY  ILLUSTRATED  WITH  HALF-TONES  AND 
TEXT  ENGRAVINGS  BY  CELEBRATED  ARTISTS 


<8I)jnrl?ht,  1909,  by  Eiton  K.  SSi'' 
Copyright.  1910 
by 

ELTON  a.  SHAW 


I 


/Is 
5 s 


To  My  Wife 

THIS  BOOK 

Is  Affectionately  Dedicated 


The  past  is  a story  of  progress, 

Yet  the  pessimist  always  lives  on; 

He  sees  the  hard  problems  before  us 
And.  thinks  his  whole  duty  is  done. 

Our  world  has  always  had  problems. 

And  the  need  of  reform  is  not  old; 

For  we  learn  from  the  pages  behind  us 
That  the  past  has  the  future  foretold. 

An  age  of  sad  moral  stagnation 
Was  the  time  of,  the  life  of  St.  Paul. 

And  yet  all  his  glorious  achievements 
Have  helped  and  inspired  us  all. 

We  read  of  the  great  work  of  Luther 
When  the  whole  church  itself  seemed  betrayed. 
But  yet  by  his  great  reformation 
Was  true  Christianity  saved. 

i Our  nation  wa.s  founded  in  freedom. 

The  hope  of  our  great  human  race. 

And  yet  in  our  few  years  of  history 
Oppression  has  held  a strong  place. 

Ah.  sad  is  the  story  of  slavery. 

That  deepest  dyed  ^urse  of  our  land; 

But  true  to  conviction  and  fearless 
Did  QUr  brave  abolitionist  stand. 

The  struggle  came  on  and  in  sorrow 
Did  millions  forfeit  their  life. 

But  a race  was  free  and  a Union  saved 
Arid  a pause  in  tKe  nation’s  strife. 

All  hall!  to  the  men  of  conviction. 

VVho  are  braye  to  step  into,  the  strife, 

And  blazen  the  path  for  the  great  reforms 
At  the  peril  of  their  life. 


Another  reform  is  now  calling 
For  qien.who  are  willing  to  fight. 

For  those  who  are  true  and  courageous. 
To  b'&ttie  again  for  the  right. 


Each  year  a full  hundred  thousand 
Are  dying  in  awful  disgrace. 

All  around  and  about  us  they  perish 
And  their  sons  are  taking  their  place. 

But  again  the  old  oessimist  answers. 

As  he  enters  upon  the  sad  scene 
And  pleads  in  the  name  of  freedom. 

As  he  steps  from  behind  the  dark  screen: 


“Prohibition  never  car|  prohibit. 

We  must  limit  and  regulate; 

And  so  lessen  the  number  of  victims 
Going  down  to  the  drunkard’s  fate.” 

The  way  to  reform  is  to  license. 

To  charge  five  hundred  a year. 

And  so  Uncle  Sam  will  be  partner 
In  dispensing  the  whiskey  and  beer. 


But  the  work  of  reform  is  fast  growing. 
To  save  money  and  morals  and  men 
'i  The  flag  of  the  free  must  be  stainless 
And  the  bound  must  be  set  free  again. 

f Our  league  with  hell  must-  be  hi^oken. 
For  a dollar  of  revenue 
' We’ll  no  longer  destroy  our  children 
i And  peace  and  prosperity  too. 

f Too  long  we’ve  been  cowed  into  silence 
I Concerning  this  national  sin. 

Allowing  our  peonJe  to  perish 
Because  the  foe  lurketh  within. 

f Our  temperance  hosts  are  advancing. 

I They’re  fighting  for  God  and  the  right. 
The  rum  power  is  now  fast  retreating 
[^od  victory’s  already  ii^^ight. , 


E.  R,  Shaw, 


PREFACE 

There  is  no  need  to  say  much  by  way  of  preface  to  this  book.  The 
character  of  the  work  is  so  fully  described  by  the  title  page  and  the 
table  of  contents  that  little  remains  to  be  added  to  give  the  readers  a 
clear  idea  of  the  nature  and  purpose  of  the  work. 

We  offer  no  apology  for  adding  one  more  volume  to  the  many  books 
dealing  with  the  great  temperance  reform,  for  we  believe  that  this  has 
a place  distinct  from  all  others,  and  that  it  will  meet  a demand  that  has 
never  been  more  urgent  than  at  the  present  time.  There  are  many 
excellent  books  dealing  with  the  history  of  this  reform  movement  and 
with  the  economic  and  theoretical  sides  of  the  question ; but  no  book  of 
stories,  incidents  or  poems  has  yet  been  published.  The  many  able 
books  and  annual  prohibition  hand-books  have  done  a great  work  in 
giving  information  to  people  already  interested  in  the  reform,  but  it 
must  be  admitted  by  all  that  they  are  read  largely  by  reformers  and 
Christian  people  who  already  realize  that  the  liquor  traffic  is  Hell’s 
Commerce  and  that  its  overthrow  is  the  greatest  problem  before  the 
American  people.  Such  people  are  already  engaged,  to  some  extent 
at  least,  in  the  work  of  bringing  about  the  downfall  of  this  curse  of 
our  country.  This  book  is  designed  to  aid  all  engaged  in  this  work,  but 
has  also  another  purpose  quite  as  important. 

The  attitude  of  the  newspapers  is  better  than  it  has  ever  been  in 
the  past,  but  secular  newspapers  never  have  and  never  will  corne  out 
and  give  their  columns  to  such  stories  and  incidents  as  these  which  will 
appeal  to  the  heart  and  soul.  The  religious  press  is  doing  a noble  work 
in  this  line,  but  religious  papers  go  only  in  the  homes  of  church  mem- 
bers. Even  there  they  are  limited.  Few  families  have  more  than  one  or 
two.  religious  papers.  The  subscription  book  reaches  a new  field,  and  a 
book  of  this  nature  will  find  its  way  into  homes  where  it  is  much  needed. 

Again,  the  book  is  needed  to  reach  the  youth  of  our  land  in  their 
homes.  Many  people  advance  the  theory  that  knowledge  of  evil  should 
be  kept  front  the  young  — that  ignorance  is  the  best  guarantee  of  inno- 
cence. The  sad  testimony  of  thousands  proves  that  this  is  a fallacy. 
In  ignorance  lies  the  greatest  danger.  One  of  the  greatest  causes  of 
the  prohibition  wave  during  the  last  few  years  has  been  the  educative 
forces  that  have  been  at  work  for  the  last  forty  or  fifty  years.  The 
teaching  in  the  schools  of  the  effect  of  alcohol  upon  the  system  has  had 

VII 


VIII 


PREFACE 


great  results.  A new  generation  has  grown  up  and  this  early  training 
has  not  been  forgotten.  This  book  of  stories,  interesting  incidents 
and  poems  will  be  read  by  the  young  as  well  as  the  older  ones,  and  is 
bound  to  create  a sentiment  that  will  be  worked  out  in  later  years.  The 
book  is  therefore  intended  to  supplement  the  work  of  the  Temperance 
columns  in  religious  periodicals,  and  it  is  hoped  that  its  nature  and 
character  will  make  it  appeal  to  people  who  are  not  reached  by  the 
historical,  economic  and  other  theoretical  books,  or  by  the  religious  press. 

We  do  not  mean  to  imply  by  this,  that  the  book  is  intended  to  appeal 
to  the  emotions  only.  These  stories,  incidents  and  poems  give  much 
information  and  deal  with  all  phases  of  the  liquor  problem. 

In  collecting  the  matter  for  this  book,  we  have  tried  to  avoid  any- 
thing that  did  not  appear  to  be  perfectly  reliable  and  true  to  life.  We 
have  given  the  name  of  the  author  as  well  as  the  periodical  in  as  many 
cases  as  we  have  been  able  to  do  so.  Many  of  the  sketches  and  stories 
are  true,  and  in  choosing  fiction,  we  have  chosen  what  we  believe 
will  help  to  portray  the  traffic  in  its  true  light.  It  must  be  remem  - 
bered  that  there  are  some  things  that  cannot  be  exaggerated.  No  news- 
paper reporter  has  ever  yet  been  able  in  his  description  to  overdraw  a 
real  cyclone,  an  earthquake  or  a storm  at  sea.  No  person  has  ever  been 
able  to  exaggerate  the  slimy  squalor  and  crime  of  our  slimiest  slum.s  in 
our  great  cities,  and  it  must  be  admitted  by  all  who  are  familiar  with 
the  awful  conditions  and  crime  and  misery  traceable  to  the  liquor 
traffic,  that  these  stories  and  shorter  sketches  are  not  overdrawn  in  the 
least.  Some  of  the  accounts  narrated  have  come  under  our  persona! 
knowledge ; others  have  been  written  expressly  for  this  book,  and 
others  have  been  selected  from  hundreds  of  periodicals  and  other  sources 
to  which  we  have  had  access  during  the  last  seven  or  eight  years. 

The  pointed  paragraphs  have  been  gathered  from  various  sources 
and  are  what  we  consider  to  be  only  the  very  best  that  have  been  pub- 
lished. We  have  given  credit  in  as  many  cases  as  possible,  but  have 
been  unable  to  do  this  with  a large  number  of  them,  inasmuch  as  the 
papers  do  not  give  the  authors  of  such  short  sentences.  We  believe 
that  these  will  be  valuable  to  temperance  lecturers  and  other  workers. 
Surely,  they  cannot  but  help  to  be  beneficial  to  all  readers, 

We  believe  that  there  is  much  need  of  such  a collection  of  songs 
as  this  book  contains.  Various  books  and  booklets  of  temperance  songs 
have  been  published,  but  the  tunes  are  new,  or  at  least  unfamiliar  to 


PREFACE 


IX 


most  people.  People  are  slow  to  take  up  new  tunes,  and  hence  this 
form  of  agitation  in  churches  and  other  congregations  has  never  proven 
as  successful  as  it  should  be.  We  have  selected  songs  to  be  sung  with 
patriotic  and  a few  other  well-known  airs.  We  believe  that  audiences 
will  join  heartily  in  the  singing  of  these  words  to  such  tunes,  and  can 
furnish  booklets  at  a very  small  price  for  such  occasions.  It  is  the 
hope  of  the  publishers  that  these  songs  will  be  sung  in  the  homes  and 
taught  to  the  children.  Such  a practice  cannot  help  but  have  a lasting 
influence. 

Many  of  the  stories,  incidents  and  poems  are  published  in  tract 
form  by  the  publishers  of  this  book,  who  will  furnish  list  and  prices 
on  application. 

We  desire  to  acknowledge  our  indebtedness  to  President  Dickie 
for  his  introduction ; to  our  parents  and  others  for  their  aid  in  the  com- 
pilation and  proof-reading  of  the  work ; to  the  various  papers  for  their 
kindness  in  loaning  us  cuts ; to  other  papers  giving  us  permission  to 
reproduce  their  illustrations  and  for  information  given  us  from  the 
offices  of  the  various  temperance  organizations. 

That  this  book  may  awaken  a greater  interest  and  create  deeper 
conviction  that  will  be  worked  out  in  the  agitation  now  already  so 
prevalent  for  the  overthrow  of  the  liquor  traffic,  is  the  prayer  of  the 
publishers. 


INTRODUCTION 

The  book  that  Mr.  Shaw  is  putting  before  the  public 
needs  no  lengthy  introduction. 

The  temperance  question  is  still  a very  live  question  and 
will  continue  to  interest  men  and  women  of  all  classes  for  years 
to  come. 

The  reform  movement  which  demands  the  entire  sup- 
pression of  the  traffic  in  and  manufacture  of  intoxicating  bev- 
erages has  traveled  a long  and  sometimes  an  uncertain  road, 
but  it  now  seems  to  be  nearing  the  goal  which  has  all  along 
been  its  objective  point. 

Gradually  an  increasing  number  of  our  best  citizens  are 
coming  to  see  that  the  liquor  traffic  has  no  right  to  exist,  that 
it  is  evil  and  only  evil  and  that  continually,  and  that  it  meets 
no  innocent  need  of  human  life,  that  it  creates  no  values,  that 
it  absorbs  great  values,  that  it  robs  the  butcher  and  the  grocer 
and  the  dry  goods  dealer,  that  it  is  a pirate  on  the  high  seas  of 
commerce,  a fraud  and  a robber  everywhere,  that  it  breaks 
hearts  and  ruins  lives  and  curses  and  blights  and  damns  all 
who  come  in  contact  with  it. 

The  economic,  the  political  and  the  social  ills  growing 
out  of  the  sale  and  use  of  intoxicants  have  forced  upon  the 
people  the  necessity  of  giving  increased  attention  to  the  exter- 
mination of  the  traffic. 

This  book  contains  many  true  stories  of  drink’s  awful 
tragedies  and  gives  in  brief  and  pointed  paragraphs  the  pithy 

XI 


XII 


INTRODUCTION 


utterances  of  many  men  and  women  who  have  put  their  lives 
into  the  struggle  for  the  overthrow  of  a giant  wrong. 

I sincerely  hope  and  confidently  believe  that  the  wide 
circulation  of  the  items  here'  compiled  will  contribute  in  no 
small  degree  to  the  right  side  of  the  controversy  for  the  out- 
lawry of  the  world’s  greatest  wrong,  the  licensed  licLuor  traffic. 


V 


Albion,  Mich.,  Aug.  26,  1^09. 


CONTENTS 


PART  I-STORIES 


Page 

Story  of  a Little  Life. 19 

The  Bridal  Wine-Cup 22 

The  Old  Temperance  Lecturer — . 24 

The  Voice  of  the  Trumpet 30 

A Three-fold  Victory 40 

An  Angel  in  a Salo'on 46 

Captain  Ned  and  the  Dragon 50 

Little  Jim  S3 

Janie  Elliott’s  Christmas 59 

Saved  by  a Telephone  Message 64 

The  Faith  of  Hetty  Ria 68 

Aunt  Margaret’s  Story 72 

Tom  M’Hardy’s  Battlements 78 

The  Saloon  at  the  Settlement 83 

The  Voice  of  the  Pilot 92 

At  the  Stroke  of  Nine 106 

Tom’s  Temperance  Lecture 108 

The  Spectral  Inn-Keeper 112 

Liquor’s  Deadly  Work 119 

The  Driver’s  Story 123 

A Scrap  of  Brown  Paper 124 

Experience  of  Col.  S.  E.  Hadley. . .127 

Anton  Vester’s  Revenge 130 

The  Cost  of  One  Drink 136 

The  Company  He  Kept 139 

Roger  Carville’s  Atonement 143 

The  Pauper  Woman’s  Speech 156 

You  Never  Told  Us 158 

What  Came  to  Dilly’s  House 160 

The  Widow  and  the  Judge 163 

A Bottle  of  Tears 166 

The  Standardf-Bearer 169 

Little  Bridget 172 

Married  to  a Drunkard 174 

Allen  Bancroft’s  Pledge  176 

Mrs.  Clapsaddle’s  Experience  with 

Stufflie’s  Salted  Whiskey 179 

Handicapped 185 

A Paying  Result 191 

Timmy  Flannigan  and  His  Promo- 
tion   198 

Rebellion  of  “Front  No.  3” 201 

His  Own  Way 204 

The  Saloon-Keeper’s  Daughter, ..  .206 

“Puff”  The  Engineer 212 

Jimmie’s  Account 216 

For  the  Sake  of  Jimmy 219 

Tow-Head  224 

How  His  Easter  Came 228 

Aunt  Lizzie’s  Prayer  Answered. . . .236 


Page 

Why  I Destroyed  the  Card. 241 

Unrolling  the  Spool 243 

The  Lawyer’s  Story 245 

What  One  Boy  Did 247 

A Helpmeet  for  Him 249 

The  Story  of  “Old  Wiesman” 255 

A Saloon-Keeper’s  Plea 258 

Eli  Perkins  Joins  a Drinking  Club. 261 

What  a Tremendous  Price 263 

Why  the  Janitor  Was  Not  Dis- 
charged   266 

When  Billy  Visited  the  Mayor 269 

How  Jimmy  Kept  Christmas 271 

When  the  Barracks  Went  Dry. . . .274 

A Fateful  New  Year 280 

Granny  Hobart’s  Easter 286 

Who  Pays  It 290 

PARTII-INGDENTS 

Only  a Vote 303 

New  Shoes 304 

“I’ll  Never  Steal  Again  If  Father 

Kills  Me  for  It” 306 

What  Became  of  Them 309 

His  Drink  Cure 309 

Just  One  Drink 310 

The  Tearless  Handkerchief 311 

It  Saves  the  Boys 312 

Jack  and  His  Hard  Lump 313 

The  Work  of  a Saloon 314 

“Papa  Made  Me  Drunk” 316 

Gospel  Temperance 316 

Waiting  for  His  Drunken  Mother.  .317 
Her  Unique  Definition  of  Teetotal- 

ism  318 

Brave  Bill  and  His  Enemy M8 

A Reply  to  the  Moderate  Drinker.  .319 

Sailors  of  the  Maine 319 

A Good  Judge  of  Whisky 320 

A Pathetic  Story 321 

Broke  His  Pledge 322 

A Five-Dollar  Investment 323 

The  Moderate  Drinking  Habit  His 

Ruin  326 

Change  Your  Hitching  Post 328 

A Girl  Drunkard  329 

Who’s  to  Blame i [ .331 

The  Saloon-Keeper  and  His  c’hiid.’331 

That  Boy 333 

Jim’s  Practical  Address .......... .334 

Did  Not  Like  the  Crowd 335 

The  Engineer’s  Remedy 336 


XIV 


CONTENTS 


Page 

The  Rum-Seller’s  Dream * . . .337 

Ingersoll’s  and  Buckley’s  View  of  a 

Whiskey  Bottle  338 

Closed  on  Account  of  Death 339 

Stopped  the  Train  Three  Times... 341 

The  Saloon 342 

Drinking  Up  Farms 342 

A Temperance-Coat 343 

The  Bold  Apprentice 343 

Jack  and  His  Shipmates 344 

Who  Killed  the  Boy? 345 

The  Root  Beer  Fraud 346 

Jamaica  Ginger  347 

A Woman’s  Estimate 348 

Saved  His  Hand 349 

Those  Who  Drink  Are  Dead 350 

What  Drink  Did 350 

Bad  Company 351 

Not  Worth  the  Price 351 

Oh,  Thou  Cursed  Drink! 352 

A Wife  Became  an  Open  Book... 354 

Diary  of  a Rum  Seller 354 

The  License  Plan .355 

Your  Boy  Among  the  Possibilities. 356 

Liquid'  Bread  356 

Wanted;  A Bartender 357 

A Soldier’s  Story 358 

How  the  Saloon  Was  Closed 358 

Rescued  Men 360 

What  Ruins  Girls  361 

The  Rum  Seller’s  Equivalent. ....  .362 
Advertisement  of  Rum -Voting 

Churches  364 

The  Light  Wine  Fallacy 365 

Loved'  and  Lost  367 

Our  Civilization  for  Savages 369 

The  Most  Dangero'us  Tempters. . .369 

Could  Not  Be  Bought 370 

A Surgeon’s  Temperance .372 

Preaching  in  Prison 372 

When  the  Unexpected  Happened.  .374 

A Father’s  Responsibility 376 

Over  a Glass  of  Wine 376 

More  of  Whiskey’s  Work 378 

John  G.  Woolley’s  Conversion ^80 

In  the  Dives  of  St.  Louis 381 

Why  He  Swore  Off 

A Lesson  of  Pathos  from  the  Po- 
lice Court  _ 384 

A Straight  Transaction  . . • 

Fermented  Wine  at  the  Sacrament.386 
Pathetic  Case  of  Oscar  B.  Byor. . .387 

Robert  Jolley’s  Tragedy 38V 

Drank  No  More  Tears 3»y 

Jonathan  Rigdon’s  Monument 390 


Page 

A Touching  Letter 392 

The  Captain’s  Method' 393 

The  Liquor  Dealer’s  Diary 393 

Who  Is  the  Criminal? 395 

Whose  Fault?  396 

His  Mother’s  Crusade 397 

The  Twin  Evils  398 

More  Insane  Soldiers 398 

A Tramp’s  Speech  399 

A Good  Investment 400 

Hand  Over  the  Reins 401 

Hurrying  Hellward  402 

Alcoholism'  in  Children 402 

Saved  by  a Kind  Word 403 

Quaker’s  Temperance  Lecture 404 

A Castor  Oil  Treat 404 

A Young  Business  Man’s  Reforma- 
tion   405 

An  Ill-Fated  Sleighride 405 

The  Lawyer’s  Lesson  406 

The  Bartender’s  Reformation 407 

Why  He  Refused 408 

The  Elephant  and  Python 408 

Boy  Wanted 409 

A Strong  Argument 410 

A Little  Indulgence  and  What 

Came  of  It 410 

The  Last  Words  of  a Drunkard. . .411 

The  Beginning  and  the  End 413 

The  Saloon-Keeper 413 

The  First  Glass  415 

“My  Guests  Touch  No  Wine” 416 

Sheridan  and  His  Son 417 

The  Oppressor  417 

The  Little  Shoes  419 

A Promise  to  a Mother 420 

“We  Played  Cards  and  Drank 

Wine”  421 

A Drunkard’s  Will 422 

They  Had  Been  There 422 

Mr.  Gladstone’s  Temperance  Work.423 

The  Saloon  and  Children 424 

Sunshine  or  Shadow 425 

Bottles  Make  Rags  425 

A Word  About  a Drop 426 

Flavored  With  Brandy 426 

Be  Not  Deceived  427 

The  Commander’s  Placards 428 

What’s  Your  Boy  Worth 428 

Keep  the  Pledge 430 

“What  It  Feeds  On” 431 

A Village  Disgrace ■432 

The  Serpent  of  Drink 432 

Why  Kipling  Quit  Drinking  Beer. 433 
Gen.  Fred  Grant  on  Drink 434 


CONTENTS  XV 


Page 

Wilson  Whisky 436 

Correspondence  Between  the  Rum 

Seller  and  the  Devil 436 

“New  York’s  Wildest  Orgy” 439 

What  Whiskey  Made  of  a Father.  .441 

Story  of  a Jackknife 442 

Playing  the  Fool 442 

The  Cost  of  a Boy 443 

A Mother’s  Influence 443 

The  Dying  Child’s  Prayer  for  Her 

Drunken  Father 444 

Why  He  Quit  Drinking 445 

“I’ll  Take  What  Father  Takes”... 445 

A Sharp  Rejoinder 446 

Nerveless  Drinkers  447 

They  Hold  the  Key 448 

Conquered  by  a Drinking  Cup 449 

A Policeman’s  Testimony 449 

Whiskey’s  Deadly  Work 449 

Alcohol  Ahead 452 

Wanted:  Boys  for  Customers 452 

Who  Am  I?  Whisky,  “That’s  All”. 453 

The  Item  That  Told' 454 

A Horrible  Idea  454 

That  Sobered  Me 455 

Don’t  Marry  a Drunkard 456 

Twin  Demons — A Colloquy 456 

The  Great  Destroyer 458 

How  a Drunkard  Was  Saved 461 

How  to  Make  a Good  Boy 461 

Christian  (?)  Civilization,  Mission- 
aries and  Rum  462 

The  Brandy  Peach  462 

“Am  I to  Blame?” 464 

A Correct  Answer  464 

Remorse  and  Retribution 464 

The  Closing  Scene 465 

An  Indian  Temperance  Pledge 466 

A Mother’s  Struggle  468 

Plague-Spots  469 

Saved  by  Reverence  for  the  Bible.  .469 
How  Liquor  Affects  the  Heart. . . .470 
Hogs  Worth  More  Than  Men!. . . .471 
Benjamin  Franklin’s  Experience ..  .472 
Report  of  a Government  Investiga- 
tion   473 

Largest  Business  Men  Don’t  Drink. 473 
Discharged  for  Entering  a Store.. 474 

A Bank’s  Temperance  Rule 475 

A Physician’s  Blunder  475 

Sensible  Words  from  a Senior 476 

Moral  Suasion  or  Prohibtion, 

Which  Shall  It  Be? 477 

And  Whiskey  Did  It 478 

The  Struggle  With  Appetite 480 

Charles  Lamb  to  Young  Men 482 


Page 

PARTin 

POINTED  PARAGRAPHS 


Pointed  Paragraphs 485  to  504 

PART  IV -POEMS 

The  Saloon-Keeper’s  Cash  Drawer 

Bell  507 

“Whiskey,  That’s  All” 508 

Rum’s  Maniac  512 

The  Drunkard’s  Daughter 513 

“If”  513 

Blood-Money  514 

The  Shadow 515 

The  Drunkard’s  Wife 515 

Under  the  License  Law 515 

Asked  and  Answered 516 

A Voice  from  the  Poorhduse 517 

The  Sign  Board  517 

The  Part  They  Do  Not  Tell M8 

The  Jolly  Distiller 518 

Can  It  Be  Right? 518 

A Boy  Wanted 519 

The  Drunkard’s  Fate 519 

“The  Beer  That  Made  Milwaukee 

Famous”  519 

“I  Have  Drunk  My  Last  Glass”... 519 

That’s  So 520 

Who  Is  to  Blame? 521 

Poorhouse  Nan 521 

The  Crimson  Ballot 522 

Vote  It  Down  523 

Don’t  Marry  a Man  to  Reform  Him. 525 

What  Whiskey  Will  Do 523 

The  Saloon  Bar 524 

Saloon-Keeper’s  Soliloquy 524 

Ladies’  Entrance 525 

Ode  to  Americans 526 

The  Saloon-Keeper’s  Side 527 

The  Budweiser  Brand 528 

The  Consumer’s  Side 529 

The  March  of  the  Drink  Brigade.  .530 

PARTV-SONGS 

World  Is  Going  Dry 533 

The  Right  Shall  Prevail 533 

Stand  Up  for  Temperance 533 

When  Rum  Shall  Cease  to  Reign.. 533 

God  Bless  Our  Cause 534 

The  World  Is  Growing  Bright. ..  .534 

Storm  the  Fort  for  Prohibition 534 

Hurrah  for  Prohibition 534 

The  Great  Movement 535 

When  We  Vote  the  Saloons  Out.  .535 


XVI 


CONTENTS 


Page 

No  License  Shall  Triumph 535 

The  Temperance  Wave 536 

No  License  Forever .536 

Say,  Voters,  Are  You  Ready? 536 

Temperance  Folks,  Wake  Up 536 

Come  and  Join  Our  Army 537 

Our  Country 537 

We’ll  Defend  Our  Homes 537 

Voting  for  No  License 537 

No  License  Is  Our  Theme 538 

A Day  of  Wrath 538 

Hold  the  Fort  for  No  License; . . . .538 

Hail  Columbia  538 

Mourning  at  the  Old  Hearthstone. 539 
From  the  Mountains  to  the  Sea. . . .539 

Voter’s  Consecration ,539 

A Temperance  Campaign  Song. . . .539 
Our  Coming  Banner 540 


Page 

Sweeping  the  Land  with  Prohibi- 


tion   540 

Evils  of  Intemperance 540 

Our  Battle  Cry  No  License 541 

The  Temperance  Banner 541 

A Call  to  Workmen 541 

The  No-License  Banner 542 

The  Good  Time  Coming 542 

Light  of  the  Truth  Is  Breaking. . .542 
Storm  the  Fort  for  No  License. . . .543 

Brave  Temperance  Men 543 

We’ll  Do  and  Dare 543 

Crush  the  Monster 543 

Dare  We  License? 544 

Prayer  for  Light  and  Help 544 

Dixie  Land  for  Temperance 544 

Battle  Cry  of  Temperance 544 

Temperance  Doxology 544 


“Go  for  my  -wandering  boy  tonight, 

Go  search  for  him  where  you  -will; 
And  bring  him  to  me  in  all  his  plight, 
And  tell  him  I love  him  still.” 


THE  STORY  OF  “JIMMY’S  ACCOUNT.’’ 

“This  is  the  last  time  I’ll  ever  cross  this  threshold — I’m  going  to  give  mj  boy 
a fair  chance — you ’F- never  get  another  cent  from  me.’’  See  Page  218. 


PART  1 

STORIES 


KILLING  TWO  BIRDS  WITH  ONE  STONE. 

It  is  a positive  fact,  acknowledged  by  all  who  have  studied  the  matter  that  if 
the  saloon  is  driven  out,  vice  cannot  endure  because  the  saloon  is  its  greatest 
feeder. 


“What  is  your  name?”  asked  the  teacher. 

“Tommy  Brown,  ma’am,”  answered  the  boy. 

He  was  a pathetic  little  figure,  with  a thin  face,  hollow  eyes  and  pale 
cheeks,  that  plainly  told  of  insufficient  food.  He  wore  a suit  of  clothes 
evidently  made  for  someone  else.  They  were  patched  in  places  with 
cloth  of  different  colors.  His  shoes  were  old,  his  hair  cut  square  in  the 
neck  in  the  unpracticed  manner  in  which  women  sometimes  cut  boys’ 
hair.  It  was  a bitter  day,  yet  he  wore  no  overcoat,  and  his  bare  hands 
were  red  with  the  cold. 

“How  old  are  you.  Tommy?” 

“Nine  years  old  come  next  April.  I’ve  learned  to  r ad  at  home, 
and  I can  cipher  a little.” 

“Well,  it  is  time  for  you  to  begin  school.  Why  have  you  never 
come  before?” 

The  boy  fumbled  with  a cap  in  his  hands,  and  did  not  reply  at  once. 
It  was  a ragged  cap  with  frayed  edges,  and  the  original  color  of  the 
fabric  no  man  could  tell. 

Presently  he  said,  “I  never  went  to  school  ’cause  — ’cause  — well, 
mother  takes  in  washin’,  and’  she  couldn’t  s-pare  me.  But  Sissy  is  big 
enough  now  to  help,  an’  she  minds  the  baby  besides.” 

It  was  not  quite  time  for  school  to  begin.  All  around  the  teacher 
and  the  new  scholar  stood  the  boys  that  belonged  in  the  room. 

While  he  was  making  his  confused  explanation  some  of  the  boys 
laughed,  and  one  of  them  called  out,  “Say,  Tommy,  where  are  your  cuffs 
and  collars?”  And  another  sang  out,  “You  must  sleep  in  the  rag-bag 
at  night  by  the  looks  of  your  clothes !”  Before  the  teacher  could  quiet 
them,  another  boy  had  volunteered  the  information  that  the  father  of  the 
l;oy  was  “old  Si  Brown,  who  is  always  as  drunk  as  a fiddler.” 

The  poor  child  looked  around  on  his  tormentors  like  a hunted  thing. 
Then,  before  the  teacher  could  detain  him,  with  a suppressed  cry  of 


20 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


misery  he  ran  out  of  the  room,  out  of  the  building,  down  the  street,  and 
was  seen  no  more. 

The  teacher  went  to  her  duties  with  a troubled  heart.  All  day  long 
the  child’s  pitiful  face  haunted  her.  She  could  not  rid  herself  of  the 
memory  of  it.  After  a little  trouble  she  found  the  place  where  he  lived, 
and  then  two  kind  ladies  went  to  visit  him. 

It  was  a dilapidated  house.  When  they  first  entered  they  could 
scarcely  discern  objects,  the  room  was  so  filled  with  the  steam  of  the 
soapsuds.  There  were  two  windows,  but  a tall  brick  building  adjacent 
shut  out  the  light.  It  was  a gloomy  day,  too,  with  gray,  lowering  clouds 
that  forbade  even  the  memory  of  sunshine. 

A woman  stood  before  a wash  tub.  When  they  entered,  she  wiped 
her  hands  on  her  apron,  and  came  forward  to  meet  them. 

Once  she  had  been  pretty,  but  the  color  had  gone  out  of  her  face, 
leaving  only  sharpened  outlines  and  haggardness  of  expression. 

She  asked  them  to  sit  down ; then  taking  a chair  herself,  she  said, 
“Sissy,  give  me  the  baby.” 

A little  girl  came  forward  from  a dark  corner  of  the  room,  carrying 
a baby  that  sAe  laid  in  its  mother’s  lap,  a lean  and  sickly-looking  baby, 
with  the  same  hollow  eyes  that  Tommy  had. 

“Your  baby  doesn’t  look  strong,”  said  one  of  the  ladies. 

“No,  ma’am,  she  ain’t  very  well.  I have  to  w'ork  hard,  and  I expect 
it  affects  her,” 

“Where  is  your  little  Tommy?”  asked  one  of  the  visitors. 

“He  is  in  there  in  the  trundle-bed,”  replied  the  mother. 

“Is  he  sick?” 

“Yes’m,  and  the  doctor  thinks  he  ain’t  gojng  to  get  well.”  At  this 
the  tears  ran  down  her  thin  and  faded  cheeks. 

“What  is  the  matter  with  him?” 

“He  was  never  very  strong,  and  he’s  had  to  work  too  hard,  carrying 
water  and  helping  me  lift  the  wash  tubs  and  things  like  that.  Of  late  he 
has  been  crazy  to  go  to  school.  I never  could  spare  him  till  this  winter. 
He  thought  if  he  could  get  a little  education  he’d  be  able  to  take  care  of 
Sissy  and  baby  and  me.  So  I fixed  up  his  clothes  as  well  as  I could,  and 
last  week  he  started.  I was  afraid  the  boys  would  laugh  at  him,  but  he 
thought  he  could  stand  it  if  they  did.  I stood  at  the  door  and  watched 
him  going.  I can  never  forget  how  the  little  fellow  looked,”  she  con- 
tinued, the  tears  streaming  down  her  face.  “His  patched-up  clothes,  his 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


21 


poor  little  anxious  look.  He  turned  around  to  me  as  he  left  the  yard, 
and  said,  ‘Don’t  worry,  mother;  I won’t  mind  what  the  boys  say.’  Rut 
he  did  mind.  It  wasn’t  an  hour  before  he  was  back  again.  I believe  the 
child’s  heart  was  just  broke.  I thought  mine  was  broke  years  ago.  If 
it  was,  it  was  broken  over  again  that  day.  I can  stand  most  anything 
myself,  but  oh!  I can’t  bear  to  see  my  children  suffer.”  Here  she 
broke  down  in  a fit  of  convulsive  weeping.  The  little  girl  came  up  to  her 
quietly  and  stole  a thin  little  arm  around  her  mother’s  neck.  “Don’t 
cry,  mother,”  she  whispered,  “don’t  cry.” 

The  woman  made  an  effort  to  check  her  tears,  and  she  wiped  her 
eyes.  As  soon  as  she  could  speak  with  any  degree  of  calmness,  she 
continued : 

“Poor  little  Tommy  cried  all  day;  I couldn’t  comfort  him.  He  said 
It  was  no  use  trying  to  do  anything.  Folks  would  only  laugh  at  him  for 
being  a drunkard’s  little  boy.  I tried  to  comfort  him  before  my  hiisband 
came  home.  I told  him  his  father  would  be  mad  if  he  saw  him  crying. 
But  it  w^n’t  any  use.  Seemed  like  he  could  not  stop.  His  father  came 
and  saw  him.  He  wouldn’t  have  done  it  if  he  hadn’t  been  drinking.  He 
ain’t  a bad  man  when  he  is  sober.  I hate  to  tell  it,  but  he  whipped 
Tommy  and  the  child  fell  and  struck  his  head.  I suppose  he’d  ’a’  been 
sick  anyway.  But  oh ! my  poor  little  boy.  My  sick,  suffering  child !” 
she  cried.  “How  can  they  let  men  sell  a thing  that  makes  the  innocent 
suffer  so?” 

One  of  the  ladies  went  to  the  bed.  There  he  lay,  poor  little  defense- 
less victim.  He  lived  in  a Christian  land,  in  a country  that  takes  great 
care  to  pass  laws  to  protect  sheep,  and  diligently  legislates  over  its  game. 
Would  that  the  children  were  as  precious  as  brutes  and  birds ! Would 
that  the  law  was  more  jealous  of  little  waifs’  rights ! 

His  face  was  flushed,  and  the  hollow  eyes  were  bright.  There  was 
a long,  purple  mark  on  his  temple.  He  put  up  one  little  wasted  hand 
to  cover  it,  while  he  said,  “Father  wouldn’t  have  done  it  if  he  hadn’t 
been  drinking.”  Then,  in  his  queer,  piping  voice,  weak  with  sickness, 
he  half  whispered,  “I’m  glad  I’m  going  to  die.  I’m  too  weak  ever  to  help 
mother  anyhow.  Up  in  heaven  the  artgels  ain’t  going  to  call  me  the 
drunkard’s  child,  and  make  fun  of  my  clothes.  And  maybe,  if  I’m  right 
up  there  where  God  is,  I can  keep  reminding  him  of  mother;  and  he 
will  make  it  easier  for  her.” 

He  turned  his  head  feebly  on  his  pillow,  and  then  said,  in  a lower 


22 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


tone,  “Some  day  — they  ain’t  going  — to  let  saloons  — keep  open.  But 
I’m  afraid  — poor  father — will  be  dead  — before  then.”  Then  he  shut 
his  eyes  from  weariness. 

The  next  morning  the  sun  shone  in  on  the  dead  face  of  little 
Tommy. — Our  Young  Folks. 

THE  BRIDAL  WINE-CUP. 

“Pledge  with  wine,  pledge  with  wine,”  cried  the  young  and  thought- 
less Harvey  Wood.  “Pledge  with  wine,”  ran  through  the  bridal  party. 

The  beautiful  bride  grew  pale ; the  decisive  hour  had  come.  She 
pressed  her  white  hands  together,  and  the  leaves  of  the  bridal  wreath 
trembled  on  her  brow  ; her  breath  came  quicker,  and  her  heart  beat  wilder. 

“Yes,  Marion,  lay  aside  your  scruples  for  this  once,”  said  the  judge 
in  a low  tone,  going  toward  his  daughter;  “the  company  expects  it.  Do 
not  so  seriously  infringe  upon  the  rules  of  etiquette.  In  your  own  home 
do  as  you  please ; but  in  mine,  for  this  once,  please  me.” 

Pouring  a brimming  cup,  they  held  it,  with  tempting  smiles,  toward 
Marion.  She  was  very  pale,  though  composed;  and  her  hand  shook  not, 
as  smiling  back,  she  gracefully  accepted  the  crystal  tempter,  and  raised 
it  to  her  lips.  But  scarcely  had  she  done  so  when  every  hand  was  arrested 
by  her  piercing  exclamation  of  “O,  how  terrible !” 

“What  is  it?”  cried  one  and  all,  thronging  together,  for  she  had 
slowly  carried  the  glass  at  arm’s  length,  and  was  fixedly  regarding  it. 

“Wait,”  she  answered,  while  a light,  which  seemed  inspired,  shone 
from  her  dark  eyes  — “wait,  and  I will  tell  you.  I see,”  she  added 
slowly,  pointing  one  finger  at  the  sparkling  ruby  liquid,  “a  sight  that 
beggars  all  description;  and  yet  listen;  I will  paint  it  for  you,  if  I can. 
It  is  a lovely  spot ; tall  mountains,  crowned  with  verdure,  rise  in  awful 
sublimity  around ; a river  runs  through,  and  bright  flowers  grow  to  the 
water’s  edge.  But  there  a group  of  Indians  gather;  they  flit  to  and  fro. 
with  something  like  sorrow  upon  their  dark  brows.  And  in  the  midst 
lies  a manly  form,  but  his  cheek,  how  deathly!  his  eyes  wild  with  the 
fitful  fire  of  fever.  One  friend  stands  before  him  — nay,  I should  say, 
kneels ; for  see,  he  is  pillowing  that  poor  head  upon  his  breast. 

“O  ! the  high,  holy-looking  brow.  Why  should  death  mark  it,  and  he 
so  young?  Look,  how  he  throws  back  the  damp  curls!  See  him  clasp 
his  hands?  Hear  his  thrilling  shrieks  for  life!  IMark  how  he  clutches 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


at  the  form  of  his  companion,  imploring  to  be  saved ! O ! hear  him  call 
piteously  his  father’s  name,  see  him  twine  his  fingers  together  as  he 
shrieks  for  his  sister  — his  only  sister,  the  twin  of  his  soul,  weeping  for 
him  in  his  distant  native  land. 

“See !”  she  exclaimed,  while  the  bridal  party  shrank  back,  the 
untasted  wine  trembling  in  their  faltering  grasp,  and  the  judge  fell 
overpowered  upon  his  seat  — “see!  his  arms  are  lifted  to  heaven  — he 
prays  — how  wildly  I for  mercy;  hot  fever  rushes  through  his  veins.  He 
moves  not;  his  eyes  are  set  in  their  sockets;  dim  are  their  piercing 
glances  ; in  vain  his  friend  whispers  the  name  of  father  and  sister  — death 
is  there.  Death  — and  no  soft  hand,  no  gentle  voice  to  soothe  him.  His 
head  sinks  back;  one  convulsive  shudder  — he  is  dead  I” 

A groan  ran  through  the  assembly ; so  vivid  was  her  description,  so 
unearthly  her  look,  so  inspired  her  manner,  that  what  she  described 
seemed  actually  to  have  taken  place  then  and  there.  They  noticed,  also, 
that  the  bridegroom  hid  his  face  in  his  hands,  and  was  weeping. 

“Dead !”  she  repeated  again,  her  lips  quivering  faster  and  faster,  and 
her  voice  more  broken ; “and  there  they  scoop  him  a grave ; and  there, 
without  a shroud,  they  lay  him  down  in  that  damp,  reeking  earth,  the 
only  son  of  a proud  father,  the  only  idolized  brother  of  a fond  sister. 
There  he  lies,  my  father’s  son,  my  own  twin  brother,  a victim  to  this 
deadly  poison.  Father!”  she  exclaimed,  turning  suddenly,  while  the 
tears  rained  down  her  beautiful  cheeks,  “father,  shall  I drink  it  now?” 

The  form  of  the  old  judge  was  convulsed  with  agony.  He  raised  not 
his  head,  but  in  a smothered  voice  he  faltered : 

“No,  no,  my  child;  no!” 

She  lifted  the  glittering  goblet,  and  letting  it  suddenly  fall  to  the 
floor,  it  was  dashed  in  a thousand  pieces.  Many  a tearful  eye  watched 
her  movement,  and  instantaneously  every  wine  glass  was  transferred 
to  the  marble  table  on  which  it  had  been  prepared.  Then,  as  she  looked 
at  the  fragments  of  crystal,  she  turned  to  the  company,  saying,  “Let  no 
friend  hereafter  who  loves  me  tempt  me 'to  peril  my  soul  for  wine.  Not 
firmer  are  the  everlasting  hills  than  my  resolve,  God  helping  me,  never 
to  touch  or  taste  the  poison  cup.  And  he  to  whom  I have  given  my 
hand,  who  watched  over  my  brother’s  dying  form  in  that  last  solemn 
hour,  and  buried  the  dear  wanderer  there  by  the  river  in  that  land  of 
gold,  will,  I trust,  sustain  me  in  that  resolve.” 

His  glistening  eyes,  his  sad,  sweet  smile,  were  her  answer.  The 


24 


STORIES  ‘OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


judge  left  the  room,  and  when,  an  hour  after,  he  returned,  and  with  a 
more  subdued  manner  took  part  in  the  entertainment  of  the  bridal 
guests,  no  one  could  fail  to  read  that  he  had  determined  to  banish  the 
enemy  forever  from  his  princely  home. — “Touching  Incidents  and  Re- 
markable Answers  to  Prayer.” 

THE  OLD  TEMPERANCE  LECTURER. 

I shall  never  forget  the  commencement  of  the  temperance  reforma- 
tion. I was  a child  at  the  time,  of  some  ten  years  of  age.  Our  home 
had  every  comfort,  and  my  kind  parents  idolized  me,  their  only  child. 
Wine  was  often  on  the  table,  and  both  my  father  and  mother  gave  it  to 
me  in  the  bottom  of  the  morning  glass. 

On  Sunday,  at  church,  a startling  announcement  Avas  made  to  our 
people.  I knew  nothing  of  its  purport,  but  there  was  much  whispering 
among  the  men.  The  pastor  said  that  on  the  next  evening  there  would 
be  a meeting  and  an  address  on  the  evils  of  intemperance  in  the  use  of 
alcoholic  liquors.  He  expressed  himself  ignorant  of  the  meeting,  and 
could  not  say  what  course  it  would  be  best  to  pursue  in  the  matter. 

The  subject  of  the  meeting  came  up  at  our  table  after  service,  and  I 
questioned  my  father  about  it  with  all  the  curious  earnestness  of  a child. 
The  whispers  and  words  which  had  been  dropped  in  my  hearing  clothed 
the  whole  affair  with  great  mystery  to  me,  and  I was  all  earnestness  to 
learn  the  strange  thing.  My  father  merely  said  it  was  a scheme  to  unite 
the  church  and  State. 

I well  remember  how  the  people  appeared  as  they  came  in,  seeming 
to  wonder  what  kind  of  an  exhibition  was  coming  off. 

In  the  corner  was  the  tavern-keeper,  and  around  him  a number  of 
his  friends.  For  an  hour  the  people  of  the  place  continued  to  come  in, 
till  there  was  a fair  household.  All  were  curiously  watching  the  door, 
and  apparently  wondering  what  would  appear  next.  The  parson  stole 
in  and  took  his  seat  behind  a pillar  in  the  gallery,  as  if  doubtful  of  the 
propriety  of  being  in  the  church  at  all. 

Two  men  finally  came  in  and  went  forward  to  the  altar  and  took 
their  seats.  All  eyes  were  fixed  upon  them,  and  a general  stillness  pre- 
vailed throughout  the  house. 

The  men  were  unlike  in  appearance,  one  being  short,  thick-set  in  his 
build,  and  the  other  tall  and  well  formed.  The  younger  had  the  manner 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


25 


and  dress  of  a clergyman,  a full,  round  face,  and  a quiet,  good-natured 
look  as  he  leisurely  looked  around  his  audience. 

But  my  childish  interest  was  all  in  the  old  man.  His  broad,  deep 
chest,  and  unusual  height  looked  giant-like  as  he  strode  up  the  aisle.  His 
hair  was  white,  his  brow  deeply  scarred  with  furrows,  and  around  his 
handsome  mouth,  lines  of  calm  and  touching  sadness.  His  eyes  were 
black  and  restless,  and  kindled  as  the  tavern-keeper  uttered  a low  jest. 
His  lips  were  compressed,  and  a crimson  flush  went  and  came  over  his 
pale  cheek.  One  arm  was  off  above  the  elbow,  and  there  was  a wide 
scar  above  his  right  eye. 

The  younger  finally  arose  and  stated  the  object  of  the  meeting,  and 
asked  if  there  were  a clergyman  present  to  open  with  a prayer.  Our 
pastor  kept  his  seat,  and  the  speaker  himself  made  a short  address;  at 
the  conclusion  calling  upon  any  one  to  make  remarks.  The  pastor  arose 
under  the  gallery  and  attacked  the  position  of  the  speaker,  using  the 
arguments  which  I have  often  heard  since,  and  concluded  by  denouncing 
those  engaged  in  the  movement  as  meddlesome  fanatics  who  wished  to 
break  up  the  time-honored  usages  of  good  society  and  injure  the  business 
of  respectable  men.  At  the  conclusion  of  his  remarks  the  tavern-keeper 
and  his  friends  got  up  a cheer,  and  the  current  of  feeling  was  evidently 
against  the  strangers  and  their  plan. 

While  the  pastor  was  speaking  the  old  man  had  leaned  forward  and 
fixed  his  dark  eyes  upon  him,  as  if  to  catch  every  word. 

As  the  pastor  took  his  seat  the  old  man  arose  — his  tall  form  tower- 
ing in  its  symmetry,  and  his  chest  swelling  as  he  inhaled  the  breath 
through  his  thin,  dilated  nostrils.  To  me,  at  that  time,  there  was  some- 
thing awe-inspiring  and  grand  in  the  appearance  of  the  old  man  as  he 
stood,  his  eyes  full  upon  the  audience,  his  teeth  shut  hard,  and  a silence 
like  that  of  death  throughout  the  church. 

He  bent  his  gaze  upon  the  tavern-keeper,  and  that  peculiar  eye 
lingered  and  kindled  for  half  a moment.  The  scar  grew  red  upon  his 
forehead,  and  beneath  the  heavy  brows  his  eyes  glittered  and  glowed 
like  a serpent’s ; the  tavern-keeper  quailed  before  that  searching  glance, 
and  I felt  a relief  when  the  old  man  withdrew  his  gaze.  In  a moment 
more  he  seemed  lost  in  thought,  and  then,  in  a low  and  tremulous  tone, 
he  commenced. 

There  was  a depth  in  that  voice,  a thrilling  sweetness  and  pathos, 
which  riveted  every  heart  in  the  church  before  the  first  period  had  been 


26 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


rounded.  My  father’s  attention  had  become  fixed  upon  the  eyes  of  the 
speaker  with  an  interest  I had  never  before  seen  him  exhibit.  I can 
but  briefly  remember  the  substance  of  what  the  old  man  said,  though 
the  scene  is  as  vivid  before  me  as  any  I have  ever  witnessed. 

“My  friends ! I am  a stranger  in  your  village,  and  I trust  I may 
call  you  friends.  A new  star  has  arisen,  and  there  is  hope  in  the  dark 
night  that  hangs  like  a pall  of  gloom  over  our  country.” 

With  a thrilling  depth  of  voice  the  speaker  continued:  “Oh,  God, 
Thou  who  lookest  with  compassion  upon  the  most  erring  of  earth’s 
frail  children,  I thank  thee  that  a brazen  serpent  has  been  lifted  up  on 
which  a drunkard  can  look  and  be  healed.  That  beacon  has  burst  out 
upon  the  darkness  that  surrounds  him,  which  shall  guide  back  to  honor 
and  heaven  the  bruised  and  weary  wanderer.” 

It  is  strange  what  power  there  is  in  some  voices  in  every  tone,  and, 
before  I knew  why,  a tear  dropped  on  my  hand,  followed  by  others,  like 
rain-drops.  The  old  man  brushed  one  from  his  eye,  and  continued : 

“Men  and  Christians,  you  have  just  heard  that  I am  a vagrant  and 
fanatic.  I am  not.  As  God  knows  my  own  sad  heart,  I came  here  just 
to  do  good.  Hear  me  and  be  just. 

“I  am  an  old  man  standing  alone  at  the  end  of  life’s  journey.  There 
is  a deep  sorrow  in  my  heart  and  tears  in  my  eyes.  I have  journeyed 
over  a dark,  beaconless  ocean,  and  all  life’s  brightest  hopes  have  been 
wrecked.  I am  without  friends,  home  or  kindred  on  earth,  and  look 
with  longing  to  the  rest  of  the  night  of  death.  Without  friends,  kindred 
or  home ! I was  not  once  so.” 

No  one  could  stand  the  touching  pathos  of  the  old  man.  I noticed  a 
tear  trembling  on  the  lid  of  my  father’s  eye,  and  I no  longer  felt 
ashamed  of  my  own. 

“No,  my  friends,  it  was  not  once  so.  Away  over  the  dark  waves 
which  have  wrecked  hopes,  there  is  a blessed  light  of  happiness  and 
home.  I reach  again  convulsively  for  the  shrines  of  household  idols  that 
once  were  mine ; now  mine  no  more.” 

The  old  man  seemed  looking  away  through  vacancy  upon  some 
bright  vision,  his  lips  apart  and  his  finger  extended.  I involuntarily 
turned  in  the  direction  in  which  it  was  pointed,  dreading  to  see  some 
shadow  invoked  by  its  magic  moving. 

“I  once  had  a mother.  With  her  old  heart  crushed  with  sorrow 
she  went  down  to  the  grave.  I once  had  a wife  — as  fair  angel-hearted 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


27 


creature  as  ever  smiles  in  an  earthly  home.  Her  eye  was  as  mild'  as  a 
summer’s  sky,  and-  her  heart  as  faithful  and  true  as  ever  guarded  and 
cherished  a husband’s  love.  Her  blue  eyes  grew  dim  as  the  floods  of  sorrow 
washed  away  their  brightness,  and  the  living  heart  was  wrung  till  every 
fibre  was  broken.  I once  had  a noble,  a bright  and  beautiful  boy,  but  he 
was  driven  out  from  the  ruins  of  his  home,  and  my  old  heart  yearns  to 
know  if  he  yet  lives.  I once  had  a babe,  a sweet,  tender  blossom ; but 
those  hands  destroyed  it,  and  it  lives  with  One  who  loveth  children. 

“Do  not  be  startled,  friends  — I am  not  a murderer  in  the  common 
acceptance  of  the  term.  Yet  there  is  a light  in  my  evening  sky.  A spirit 
mother  rejoices  over  the  return  of  her  prodigal  son.  The  wife  smiles 
upon  him  who  turns  back  to  virtue  and  honor.  The  angel  child  visits  me 
at  nightfall,  and  I feel  the  hallowing  touch  of  a tiny  palm  upon  my 
feverish  cheek.  My  brave  boy,  if  he  yet  lives,  would  forgive  the  sorrow- 
ing old  man  for  the  treatment  which  sent  him  into  the  world,  and  the 
blow  that  lamed  him  for  life.  God  forgive  me  for  the  ruin  which  I 
brought  upon  myself  and  mine.” 

He  again  wiped  a tear  from  his  eyes.  My  father  watched  with  a 
strange  intensity,  and  a countenance  unusually  pale  and  excited  by 
some  strong  emotion. 

“I  was  once  a fanatic  and  madly  followed'  the  malign  light  which 
led  me  to  ruin.  I was  a fanatic  when  I sacrificed  my  wife,  children, 
happiness  and  home  to  the  accursed  demon  of  the  bowl.  I once  adored 
the  gentle  being  whom  I wronged  so  deeply. 

“I  was  a drunkard.  From  respectability  and  affluence,  I plunged 
into  degradation  and  poverty.  I dragged  my  family  down  with  me.  For 
years  I saw  her  cheek  pale,  and  her  step  grow  weary.  I left  her  alone  at 
the  wreck  of  her  home  idols  and  rioted  at  the  tavern.  She  never  com- 
plained, yet  she  and  the  children  often  went  hungry  for  bread. 

“One  New  Year  night  I returned  late  to  the  hut  where  charity  had 
given  us  a roof.  She  was  still  up,  shivering  over  the  coals.  I demanded 
food,  but  she  burst  into  tears  and  told  me  there  was  none.  I fiercely 
ordered  her  to  get  some.  She  turned  her  sad  eyes  upon  me,  the  tears 
falling  fast  over  her  pale  cheek. 

“At  this  moment  the  child  in  the  cradle  awoke  and  set  up  a famished 
wail,  startling  the  despairing  mother  like  a serpent’s  sting. 

“‘We  have  no  food,  James  — have  had  none  for  two  days.  I have 
nothing  for  the  baby.  My  once  kind  husband,  must  we  starve?’ 


28 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


“That  sad,  pleading  face,  and  those  streaming  eyes,  and  the  feeble 
wail  of  the  child  maddened  me,  and  1,  yes,  I — struck  her  a fierce  blow  in 
the  face,  and  she  fell  forward  upon  the  earth.  The  furies  of  hell  boiled 
in  my  bosom,  and  with  deep  intensity,  as  I felt  I had  committed  a 
wrong.  I had  never  struck  Mary  before,  but  now  some  terrible  impulse 
bore  me  on,  and  I stooped  down  as  well  as  I could  in  my  drunken  state 
and  clinched  both  hands  in  her  hair. 

“ ‘God  have  mercy,’  exclaimed  my  wife,  as  she  looked  up  in  my 
fiendish  countenance ; ‘you  will  not  kill  us,  you  will  not  harm  Willie,’ 
as  she  sprang  to  the  cradle  and  grasped  him  in  her  embrace.  I caught 
her  again  by  the  hair,  and  dragged  her  to  the  door,  and  as  I lifted  the 
latch  the  wind  burst  in  with  a cloud  of  snow.  With  the  yell  of  a fiend 
I still  dragged  her  on,  and  hauled  her  out  in  the  darkness  and  the  storm. 
With  a loud  Ha!  Ha!  I closed  the  door  and  turned  the  button,  her 
pleading  moans  mingled  with  the  wail  of  the  blast  and  the  sharp  cry  of 
her  babe.  But  my  work  was  not  complete.  I turned  to  the  little  bed 
where  lay  my  oldest  son,  and  snatched  him  from  his  slumbers,  and, 
against  his  half-awakened  struggles,  opened  the  door  and  threw  him 
out.  In  an  agony  of  fear  he  called  me  by  a name  I was  not  longer  fit  to 
bear,  and  locked  his  little  fingers  in  my  side-pocket.  I could  not  wrench 
that  frenzied  grasp  away,  and,  with  the  coolness  of  a devil  I was,  I 
shut  the  door  upon  his  arm,  and  with  my  knife  severed  the  wrist !” 

The  speaker  ceased  a moment  and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands,  as  if 
to  shut  out  some  fearful  dream,  and  his  deep  chest  heaved  like  a storm- 
swept  sea.  My  father  had  risen  from  his  seat  and  was  leaning  forward 
his  countenance  bloodless,  and  the  large  drops  standing  out  upon  his 
brow.  Chills  crept  back  to  my  heart,  and  I wished  that  I was  at  home. 
The  old  man  looked  up,  and  I have  never  since  beheld  such  mortal 
agony  pictured  upon  a human  face  as  there  was  on  his. 

“It  was  morning  when  I aAvoke,  and  the  storm  had  ceased,  but  the 
cold  was  intense.  I first  secured  a drink  of  water  and  then  I looked  in 
the  accustomed  place  for  Mary.  As  I first  missed  her,  a shadow  sense 
of  some  horrible  nightmare  began  to  dawn  upon  mv  wandering  mind. 
I thought  I had  dreamed  a fearful  dream,  but  involuntarily  opened  the 
door  with  a shuddering  dread. 

“As  the  door  opened  the  snow  burst  in,  followed  by  a fall  of  some- 
thing across  the  threshold,  scattering  the  cold  snow  and  striking  the  floor 
with  a hard,  sharp  sound.  My  blood  shot  like  red-hot  arrows  through 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


29 


my  veins,  and  I,  rubbed  my  eyes  to  shut  out  the  sight.  It  was  — oh, 
God,  how  horrible!  — it  was  my  own  injured  Mary  and  her  babe,  frozen 
to  ice.  The  ever  true  mother  had  bowed  herself  over  the  child  to  shield 
it,  and  had  wrapped  all  her  own  clothing  around  it,  leaving  her  own 
person  stark  and  bare  to  the  storm.  She  had  placed  her  hair  over  the 
face  of  the  child,  and  the  sleet  had  frozen  it  to  the  white  cheek.  The 
frost  was  white  in  its  half-open  eyes  and  upon  its  tiny  fingers.  I know 
not  what  became  of  my  brave  boy.” 

Again  the  old  man  bowed  his  head  and  wept,  and  all  that  were  in 
the  house  wept  with  him.  In  tones  of  low,  broken-hearted  pathos,  the 
old  man  concluded : 

“I  was  arrested,  and  for  long  months  I raved  in  delirium.  I awoke, 
and  was  sentenced  to  prison  for  ten  years,  but  no  tortures  could  equal 
those  endured  in  my  own  bosom.  Oh,  God,  no ! I am  not  a fanatic ; I 
wish  to  injure  no  one.  But,  while  I live,  let  me  strive  to  warn  others  not 
to  enter  the  path  which  has  been  such  a dark  and  fearful  one  to  me. 
I would  see  my  angel  wife  and  children  beyond  this  vale  of  tears.” 

The  old  man  sat  down,  but  a spell  as  deep  and  strange  as  that 
wrought  by  some  wizard’s  breath  rested  upon  the  audience.  Hearts 
could  have  been  heard  in  their  beating,  and  tears  to  fall.  The  old  man 
then  asked  the  people  to  sign  the  pledge.  My  father  leaped  from  his 
seat  and  snatched  at  it  eagerly.  I had  followed  him  as  he  hesitated  a 
moment  with  his  pen  in  the  ink;  a tear  fell  from  the  old  man’s  eyes 
upon  the  paper. 

“Sign  it,  young  man,  sign  it.  Angels  would  sign  it.  I would  write 
my  name  ten  thousand  times  in  blood  if  it  would  bring  back  my  loved 
ones.” 

My  father  wrote  “Mortimer  Hudson.” 

The  old  man  looked,  wiped  his  tearful  eyes,  and  looked  again,  his 
countenance  alternately  flashed  with  red  and  a death-like  paleness. 

“It  is  — no,  it  cannot  be;  yet  how  strange,”  muttered  the  old  man. 
“Pardon  me,  sir;  but  that  is  the  name  of  my  own  brave  boy.” 

My  father  trembled  and  held  up  his  left  arm,  from  which  the  hand  had 
been  severed.  They  looked  for  a moment  into  each  other’s  eyes,  both 
reeled  and  gasped : 

“My  own  injured  boy!” 

“My  father!” 

They  fell  upon  each  other  till  it  seemed  their  souls  would  grow  and 


30 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


mingle  into  one.  There  was  weeping  in  that  church,  and  I turned 
bewildered  upon  the  streaming  faces  around  me. 

“My  boy !”  exclaimed  the  old  man,  and  kneeling  down  he  poured  out 
his  heart  in  one  of  the  most  melting  prayers  I ever  heard.  The  spell 
was  broken,  and  all  eagerly  signed  the  pledge,  slowly  going  to  their 
homes,  as  if  loath  to  leave  the  spot. 

The  old  man  is  dead,  but  the  lesson  he  taught  his  grandchild  on  his 
knee  as  the  evening  sun  went  down  without  a cloud  will  never  be 
forgotten. — Selected  by  Kentucky  Patriot. 

THE  VOICE  OF  THE  TRUMPET. 

David  might  have  turned  and  twisted  restlessly  on  his  bed,  but  he 
could  not.  There  had  been  a time  — not  long  since  — when  his  mother 
had  plentifully  teased  him  for  the  tangle  of  bed  clothes  that  bore  daily 
witness  to  the  dream-flings  of  healthy  young  limbs.  Now  they  tossed 
no  more.  For  the  only  son  of  his  widowed  mother,  forever  a helpless 
cripple  by  one  of  those  strange  providences  which  we  misname  accidents, 
lay  quiet  day  after  day,  only  the  restless  head  and  arms  able  to  give 
expression  to  inward  disquiet. 

It  was  a glorious  summer  morning  — that  perfect  early  summer 
time  before  the  full  ripening  that  precedes  fall’s  change  and  decay  had 
fully  set  in.  The  small  windows  of  the  upper  chamber  where  the  )'Oung 
man  lay  admitted  gentle  drifts  of  the  fragrant  air.  A Bible  lay  under 
his  hand,  but  his  eyes  glanced,  now  yearningly  across  the  fields  to  the 
mill  district  in  the  valley,  now  with  still  greater  yearning  toward  a bur- 
nished object  which  threw  out  miniature  sunrays  from  its  place  upon 
the  wall. 

“Thinking,  Davie  boy?”  His  mother  made  one  of  her  many  brief 
visits  to  the  chamber  where  the  lad  lay,  dropping  her  work  oftener  than 
was  profitable  to  their  common  purse.  “We  must  have  you  brought 
downstairs  on  all  these  warm  summer  days.”  She  stood  a moment 
looking  at  him,  and  then,  with  a quick  movement,  took  down  from  its 
hook  on  the  wall  the  cornet  that  hung  there.  “David  !”  she  said  earnestly, 
“I  believe  — it  has  just  come  to  me  — that  God  has  still  some  use  for 
your  talent.  Here,  dear,  try!” 

She  blew  imaginary  specks  of  dust  from  the  gleaming  curves  and 
placed  the  precious  instrument  in  his  hands.  You  did  not  work  a whole 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


31 


summer’s  evenings  in  the  neighbors’  gardens  to  buy  that,  and  then  work 
all  winter  out  of  hours  and  in  sleeping  hours  to  get  lessons,  for  nothing. 
I know  it,  son ! God  never  does  contrary  things.  You  gave  Him  your 
love  of  music,  dear,  and  gave  Him  your  lips  and  your  life.  And  He 
accepted  them.  You  know,  sometimes  a mother  is  a prophet  in  Israel. 
Use  your  talent,  Davie.  You  do  not  absolutely  need  legs  for  playing.” 

It  takes  courage  to  be  courageous.  David  McNair  was  naturally 
brave.  If  he  seemed  to  have  given  up  the  struggle  to  be  somebody  worth 
while  for  the  Master’s  sake,  it  was  but  a pause  in  the  battle  — a pause 
while  he  studied  the  change  of  base  and  adjusted  himself  to  the  new 
opposition,  the  new  difficulties  to  be  overcome  by  spirit,  since  he  could 
hardly  work  through  the  flesh  much  any  more  forever,  so  great  a part  of 
the  human  frame  of  him  being  partially  dead.  The  spirit  of  the  brave 
little  woman  infused  itself  through  his  spirit.  He  put  the  horn  to  his 
lips,  and,  after  a false  note  or  two,  there  rang  out  in  the  little  room  and 
on  out  into  the  quiet  valley  beyond  the  cottage  windows  the  opening  bars 
of  “The  King’s  Business.”  It  was  that  hymn  David  had  played  when 
for  the  first  time  in  public  he  spoke  for  his  Master  “by  the  voice  of  the 
trumpet,”  and  the  voice  of  the  silver'  trumpet  spoke  the  keynote  of 
his  life: 

This  is  the  message  that  I bring, 

A message  angels  fain  would  sing: 

“O  be  ye  reconciled,”  thus  saith  my  Lord  and  King! 

“O  be  ye  reconciled  to  God!” 

“Man ! But  that’s  a sound  for  sick  ears  !”  spoke  a man’s  voice  at  the 
bedroom  door  as  the  cornet-voice  faltered  and  broke,  and  David,  wearily 
— for  he  did  not  gain  strength  lying  day  after  day  — dropped  the 
instrument  beside  him.  “Play  on,  lad!  Ye’ve  no  need  to  be  standin’ 
on  end  when  ye  can  send  yer  voice  to  the  ends  of  the  earth  that  way!” 

“That’s  just  what  I’ve  been  telling  him,”  said  Mrs.  McNair.  “You’ll 
sit  with  him  awhile,  Tom?  I’ve  to  go  to  the  village  after  some  groceries. 
It’s  lonesome  up  here  for  him  — we’ll  be  having  him  down  in  a day 
or  two,  or  soon  as  I can  get  the  little  east  room  fixed  up  for  him.” 

“Man!  I’d  lie  down  in  yer  stead,”  said  Tom  Thompson,  putting  his 
old  hat  under  a chair  and  sitting  down  close  to  the  bed,  “if  it  was  given 
me.  The  drink  devil  couldn’t  beat  me  then ! And  you’d  be  out  with  the 
Army  telling  the  good  news  with  your  silver  mouth.” 

Tom  Thompson  was  the  village  man  of  all  trades,  whose  chiefest 


32 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


trade  was  trading  ot¥  his  manhood  and  his  earnings  for  drink.  Time  and 
again  had  the  Salvation  Army  lads  and  lassies  tried  to  lead  the  poor, 
habit-wrecked  man  to  the  sure  rock  of  salvation  in  Christ  Jesus,  but 
always  temptation  conquered  the  new  resolve  — resolves  made  and  en- 
deavored to  be  kept  in  human  strength.  David  alone,  whose  “silver 
mouth”  exercised  something  akin  to  a spell  over  poor  Thompson,  had 
still  strong  faith  that  some  day  Tom  would  be  saved.  Since  the  “acci- 
dent” that  had  lain  him  aside,  paralyzed  for  life,  one  of  his  great  sorrows 
was  that  no  more  could  he  follow  the  poor  victim  to  the  haunts  of  the 
drink-fiend  and  draw  him  home  to  wife  and  children,  sometimes  by 
persuasion,  sometimes  by  friendly  force,  according  to  the  degree  of 
inebriety  attained. 

“Play  some  more,  Davie,  boy ! Play  you  ‘King’s  Business,’  ” begged 
Tom,  who  was  a passionate  music  lover,  and  who,  in  those  golden  days 
when  he  courted  his  sweetheart  with  lips  and  hands  that  were  not  shak- 
ing with  alcoholic  disease,  had  Teen  no  mean  player  upon  an  instrument 
of  his  own. 

The  flush  of  a new  interest  in  the  monotonous  day  mantled  David 
McNair’s  pale  cheeks.  Putting  the  cornet  to  his  lips,  he  played  a few 
bars,  when  Tom  interrupted  him. 

“Wait  a bit  — Pve  an  idea!  Would  it  hurt  you  if  I moved  the  bed? 
It’s  most  noon  — the  whistles’ll  blow  in  a minute.  If  you  play  out  of 
the  window,  the  wind’s  right  and  the  men’ll  hear  when  they  come  out  of 
the  mills.  There ! Now  play,  lad,  and  God  bless  ye !” 

David  played,  and  the  wind  was  right,  and  the  clear  notes  floated 
away  and  away  to  the  not-distant  mill  district  just  as  the  operatives 
poured  out  of  the  doors. 

“What’s  that?”  said  one  man  to  another  as  they  turned  their  steps 
hastily  toward  the  nearest  saloon  for  the  noonday  pails  of  beer. 

“It’s  David  McNair’s  horn,  or  his  ghost  a-playin’  it.  Listen! 

“My  home  is  brighter  far 
Than  Sharon’s  rosy  plain,” 

hummed  the  speaker, not  thinking  how  drink  was  despoiling  the  earthly 
home  it  was  his  to  make  fair  by  a clean  manhood  while  he  stayed  below. 

“It’s  Davie  for  sure.  God  bless  the  poor  lad!  Aw,  come  on,  boys, 
let’s  cut  out  the  beer  today,  for  his  sake ! It’s  often  he’s  told  us  it  would 
do  us  harm.  Maybe  he’s  right  and  maybe  he  ain’t.  Anyhow,  it  never 


STORIES  OF  HELLOS  COMMERCE 


33 


did  him  no  harm  to  let  it  alone.  Let’s  cheat  A1  Bozeman  out  of  his 
nickels  today !” 


Courtesy  . 

New . TorkJWeekly  ^ Witness 


*'Davi4  played, 
and  the  wind  was  right' 


“An’  gie  them  to  David?”  half  sneered  another. 

“Well,  why  not?  He  can’t  look  to  the  drum-head  any  more,  poor 


34 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


fellow,  and  his  mother’s  a widow.  Why  not,  boys?  Let’s  do  it  today. 
It’s  a decent  thought.” 

The  speaker,  big  Ross  Roland,  sprang  to  an  upturned  barrel  as  he 
spoke,  and  in  two  minutes  more  had  arrested  the  attention  and  the  steps 
of  most  of  the  stream  of  men  setting  toward’  A1  Bozeman  and  other 
dispensers  of  the  glass  that  does  not  cheer.  It  took  but  a few  clear  sen- 
tences to  make  the  project  plain.  “Tooting  Davie,”  as  they  had  called 
him  in  other  days,  was  a real  object  of  admiration  to  the  men  of  the 
mills.  His  stalwart  profession  for  Christ,  backed  up  by  genuine  manly 
brotherliness  to  every  man  he  met,  was  something  none  of  them  could 
heartily  laugh  at  or  deny,  so  plainly  sincere  was  it. 

As  the  cornet-voice  again  took  up  the  strain  of  the  hymn  they  knew 
-SO  well  by  the  oft-singing  of  the  Army,  someone  started  to  sing.  The 
bartenders  scowled,  if  they  did  not  do  worse,  as  a chorus  of  men’s  voices 
surged  out  upon  the  noontide : 

I am  a stranger  here,  within  a foreign  land. 

My  home  is  far  away  upon  a golden  strand; 

Ambassador  to  be  of  realms  beyond  the  sea, 

I’m  here  on  business  for  my  King. 

The  men  needed  no  conductor.  The  up-sweep  of  a noble  thought 
bore  them  on.  They  kept  time  to  an  impulse  from  the  Spirit  of  Love. 
Someone  jingled  a handful  of  coppers  in  a pail.  A willing  hand  caught 
it  up  and  it  passed  from  hand  to  hand.  The  chorus  of  the  hymn  swelled 
grandly,  and  had  the  wind  set  from  the  singers  David  could  have  heard. 
The  “silver  offering”  dropped,  not  on  the  Army  drum-head,  but  into  the 
lunch  pail,  where  beer  would  have  been  that  hour  but  for  a young  man’s 
breath  of  coiirage. 

Mrs.  McNair  spoke  but  shaken  thanks  to  the  man  who  brought  to 
the  cottage  door  that  evening,  tied  in  a clean  cotton  handkerchief,  the 
double  handful  of  coins  “for  the  lad.” 

“ ’Tain’t  much,  missus,  but  — he’d  better  have  it  than  A1  Bozeman. 
Just  tell  him  it’s  from  the  men  at  the  mills.  We  heard  him  this  noon  — 
and  it  done  us  no  harm.” 

It  is  not  part  of  this  story  to  dwell  upon  the  fact  that  the  mother 
of  David  McNair  had  been  wondering  only  that  morning  if  it  would  be 
wrong  to  pray  for  money  to  put  into  some  paint  and  wall  paper  for  the 
little  east  room  off  the  kitchen,  where  her  boy  would  be  moved  in  a few 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


35 


days.  And  this  offering  coming  unexpectedly  — was  it  wrong  to  think 
it  was  an  answer  to  the  half-framed  prayer? 

Two  or  three  days  later  a delegation  of  his  Salvation  Army  comrades 
called  upon  the  invalid.  They  did  not  leave  him  long  without  some 
attention.  But  the  King’s  business  for  the  salvation  of  souls  called  them 
out  on  long  days’  endeavors,  and  there  were  those  who  more  desperately 
needed  their  ministry  than  this  Christian  soldier,  laid  by  from  active 
service,  but  never  out  of  the  keeping  care  and  conscious  presence  of  his 
Captain. 

They  told  him  the  story  of  that  meeting  of  the  men  as  it  had  been 
told  to  them.  They  had  come  to  unfold  a plan  that  had  grown  out  of  the 
incident. 

“We  have  been  to  see  the  doctor.  We  have  talked  with  your  mother. 
Now  we  have  come  to  you.  As  long  as  you  can  talk  through  the  cornet 
the  way  you  talked  to  the  men  the  other  day,  at  a distance,  you  can  still 
do  business  for  the  King,  but  at  closer  range,  Davie.  We  have  prayed 
about  it,  and  the  Lord  led  us  to  talk  to  some  of  the  bosses  at  the  mills. 
If  you  can  stand  it  — and  the  doctor  says  it  may  add  years  to  your  life  — 
would  you  be  willing  to  be  carried  across  to  the  mills  once  or  twice  a 
v/eek  at  noon  and  play  for  the  men?  We  have  been  wanting  to  begin  a 
noon  work  there  for  several  years,  but  the  way  never  opened  up  before. 
The  saloons  are  doing  a deadly  work  — we  think  now  we  can  begin  a 
work  of  salvation.” 

David  lay  very  still.  Many  thoughts  crowded  his  quick  brain.  No 
touch  of  paralysis,  physical  or  spiritual,  lay  there,  and  the  golden  thread 
that  bound  his  thoughts  into  one  strong,  living  purpose  was  — the  King’s 
business.  If  he  might  but  be  about  that ! 

“I  seem  to  have  little  to  do  about  it,  boys ! How  do  you  propose  to 
carry  me?” 

“John  McDonough,  the  richest  stockholder,  said  if  you’d  consent,  the 
company  would  buy  you  the  easiest  adjustable  stretcher-chair  that  money 
can  buy.  You  could  be  propped  up  as  much  or  as  little  as  you  can  bear. 
You  can  manage  it  with  your  own  hands,  or  you  can  be  wheeled  or  car- 
ried. Do  it?” 

I’ll  do  it!”  he  said,  softly,  with  shining  eyes,  reaching  his  hand  up 
to  the  bed-head,  where  stood  his  mother,  too  moved  to  speak  what  was 
in  her  heart.  “You  are  a prophet,  mother !” 

It  was  a wonderful  summer  and  fall  for  more  than  one  man  in  the 


36 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


Golden  Wheat  Valley,  where  the  great  mills  ground  their  snowy  grist 
day  and  night  for  the  feeding  of  the  millions.  The  bosses  said  the  best 
investment  the  company  had  ever  made  was  the  money  put  into  David 
McNair’s  wheel  chair,  and  the  best  “backing”  they  had  ever  done  was 
the  countenance  they  had  lent  to  the  work  of  the  Army  for  the  men. 
Drink  worked  less  havoc  among  the  “hands.”  They  were  worth  more 
and  needed  less  suspicious  supervision.  The  noon  meetings  were  an 
unprecedented  success.  They  went  beyond  the  supervision  of  the  Army, 
and  became  the  interest  of  every  Christian  in  the  community.  The 
three  churches  fell  into  line,  and  people  came  from  distant  homes  to  hear 
the  “silver  mouth”  of  a crippled  lad  and  the  Gospel  message  voiced  by 
earnest  speakers  to  the  great  audience  of  men,  who  rang  it  back  in  their 
hearty  singing  of  Gospel  songs  led  by  the  “silver  mouth.” 

The  very  abuse  poured  out  upon  the  whole  scheme  by  the  saloons 
was  perhaps  the  best  gauge  of  the  good  that  was  being  done.  Not  that 
they  lost  all  or  even  most  of  their  custom.  The  evil  habits  of  life  are  not 
so  soon  nor  so  easily  broken.  But  scores  of  men  turned  their  feet  away 
from  the  fatal  thresholds  for  the  noon  hour  at  least ; many  mere  boys 
who  had  not  yet  begun  the  downward  path  were  withheld  by  the  holy 
influences  of  that  summer’s  work;  and  not  a few  souls  were  led  to 
reconciliation  with  the  God  of  their  salvation  and  because  true  soldiers 
of  the  Captain,  Christ  Jesus. 

But  all  summer  long  it  went  hard  with  Tom  Thompson.  The  very 
tug  of  the  noon  meetings  seemed  by  some  reversal  of  influence  to  impel 
him  to  deeper  depths  of  indulgence.  He  loved  David  McNair  almost 
as  dearly  as  he  loved  wife  and  children ; for  it  must  never  be  said  the 
drunkard  does  not  love.  This  man  loved  the  “silver  mouth”  as  passion- 
ately as  ever,  but  went  by  roundabout  ways  to  get  beyond  the  range  of 
its  pure  spell.  There  were  always  those  who  were  glad  to  help  him. 
Almost  nothing  did  his  drinks  cost  him  that  summer.  He  was  good 
bait  for  Bozeman  and  his  fellows  to  use  to  catch  bigger  game. 

“I  don’t  see  how  you  can  keep  a-smilin’.  Mis'  Thompson,”  said  a 
neighbor,  who  suffered  a similar  affliction  in  her  home,  coming  in  to 
call  one  day. 

“I  could  not  if  I looked  at  the  outside  things,”  Tom’s  wife  made 
answer.  “But  there’s  a help  inside.  And  that  keeps  me.  Let  me  tell 
you  what  it  is,  Mrs.  Carter.  You  need  it,  too,  dear.  I will  read  it  to 
you  right  out  of  the  Book,  and  then  you  will  know  I have  it  right.” 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


37 


From  a stand  near  by  she  took  an  open  Bible  and  read: 

“ ‘And  this  is  the  confidence  that  we  have  in  Him,  that  if  we  ask 
anything  according  to  His  will,  He  heareth  us ; and  if  we  know  that  He 
hears  us,  whatsoever  we  ask,  we  know  that  we  have  the  petitions  that 
we  desired  of  Him.’  I know  that  it  is  His  will  that  my  Tom  should  be 
saved,  for  He  is  ‘not  willing  that  any  should  perish,  but  that  all  should 
come  to  repentance.’  So  ‘this  is  the  confidence’ — and  confidence  is  not 
worry,  Mrs.  Carter  — that  I have  in  him;  I have  asked  according  to  His 
will,  and  He  has  heard,  and  so  I know  that  I have  the  petition,  and  am 
answered.” 

“Answered !”  The  caller  pointed,  almost  with  scorn,  to  the  reeling 
man  coming  down  the  street  — Tom  Thompson,  drunker  even  than 
common.  i 

Mrs.  Thompson  paled,  but  the  steady  light  in  her  eyes  did  not  go 
out.  “Though  he  slay  me,  yet  I will  trust  Him!”  she  said.  “Yes,  dear, 
answered.  The  answer  is  laid  up  beside  his  promise.  I must  just  do 
my  part,  whatever  I find  it  to  be,  and  wait  His  time  and  way.  There’s 
a time  — for  a rose  to  bloom,”  she  went  on,  touching  a delicate  pink 
blossom  that  had  climbed  to  the  kitchen  sill,  “and  a time  for  a soul  to 
be  born  into  the  Kingdom.  It  is  all  right.  My  man  has  begun  to  be  a 
Christian  in  the  knowledge  of  God  — just  as  the  rose  had  begun  to  be 
before  I ever  saw  the  first  shoot  above  the  earth.  For  He  is  faithful 
who  has  promised  me !” 

The  visitor  slipped  speechless  away  as  the  voice  of  drunken  anger 
sounded  close  by.  Her  neighbor’s  faith  was  something  to  wonder  at, 
but ! 

* ^ ^ IK  ^ 

The  noon  meeting  was  interrupted  by  the  ruthless  pushing  through 
the  crowd  of  twelve-year-old  Charlie  Thompson,  making  his  way  with 
frightened  energy  to  the  speaker’s  stand.  David  McNair  was  playing 
the  closing  strains  of  “Nearer,  My  God,  to  Thee,”  and  the  packed  audi- 
ence was  singing  heartily.  Straight  to  the  wheel  chair  went  the  lad,  and, 
when  the  last  notes  were  done,  spoke  out : 

“Mr.  David,  could  you  come  down  to  our  house — now?  Pa’s  awful ! 
Ma  didn’t  say  to  come,  but  she’s  there  alone,  and  pa  says  he’ll  kill  her, 
and  I know  he  said  one  time  he  never  could  do  a mean  thing  when  he 
heard  you  play,  and  — could  you  come  now?” 

“Sure,  Charlie ! Men,  take  me,  quick ! And,  friends,”  he  called  back. 


38 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


for  already  the  stretcher  chair  was  being  borne  away  on  the  errand  for 
the  King,  “stay  and  pray,  all  of  you  who  can  — pray  as  you  have  never 
known  how  to  pray  before.” 

With  the  silver  cornet  clasped  tightly  in  his  thin  hands,  and  the 
promise  of  the  Mighty  One  of  Israel  girding  up  his  faith,  David  McNair, 
unable  to  walk  a step,  was  hurried  away. 

No  need  here  to  describe  in  detail  the  scene  that  met  David’s  eyes 
as  he  wheeled  himself  alone  — for  so  he  insisted  on  being  left  — into 
the  little  cottage  kitchen.  Reasonless,  blind,  insane,  drunken  anger  had 
demolished  the  last  traces  of  a home.  The  children  were  in  hiding.  But 
sitting  opposite  the  poor  victim  of  Hell’s  fire-water  — well  named!  — 
was  his  wife,  quiet,  brave  and  strong  in  spirit,  because  in  spirit  she  w-as 
communing  with  her  Lord.  And  the  sustaining  w^ord  with  her  at  the 
moment  of  David  McNair’s  entrance  was  this:  “The  angel  of  the  Lord 
encampeth  round  about  them  that  fear  Him  and  delivereth  them.” 

A flash  of  almost  incredible  joy  transfigured  the  woman’s  face  when 
she  saw  what  help  had  come.  She  did  not  know  of  her  child’s  errand. 
But  if  she  had  she  would  .still  have  felt  that  it  was  the  help  of  God  that 
had  come  to  her  in  that  supreme  hour.  Never  before  had  the  drunkard 
threatened  her  life.  Now  he  had  come  home  with  a weapon  of  death  in 
his  hands,  and  had  bade  her  sit  still  if  she  would  live  another  hour.  She 
knew  where  her  children  hid  upstairs,  and  for  their  sakes  she  stayed. 

“Well,  friends,”  said  David,  pushing  his  chair  well  inside  of  the  dis- 
ordered room,  “I’ve  come  to  play  you  a tune  — an  old  favorite.  Tom! 
Listen  !”  And  without  a moment’s  delay  the  silver  strains  of  “The  King’s 
Business”  throbbed  softly  through  the  little  room,  belying  the  wreckage 
of  love’s  careful  handiwork.  The  woman  covered  her  face.  The  man’s 
right  hand  lost  its  grip  upon  the  deadly  weapon  which  he  had  secured 
from  a comrade  at  the  saloon,  and  dropped  harmless  at  his  side.  Charlie 
ventured  to  tiptoe  to  the  side  of  the  wheel  chair  — with  a feeling  in  his 
boy’s  heart  that  he  would  stay  by  mother  and  his  friend  whatever  hap- 
pened. 

This  is  the  King’s  command. 

That  all  men  everywhere 
Repent  and  turn  away 
From  sin’s  seductive  snare; 

That  all  who  will  obey 
With  Him  shall  reign  for  aye, 

’ And  that’s  my  business  for  my  King! 

Tears  — they  fell  from  drunken  eyes,  but  they  were  not  maudlin 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


39 


tears  this  time  — ran  over  the  flushed  cheeks  of  the  man  at  the  table. 
David  paused  at  the  close  of  the  melody,  wheeled  close  to  Tom’s  side, 
between  husband  and  wife,  and  quietly  taking  possession  of  the  weapon 
of  murder,  laid  it  among  his  cushions.  Then  he  played  again,  the  music 
breathing  softly  — as  softly  as  a bird’s  evensong: 

My  home  is  brighter  far 
Than  Sharon’s  rosy  plain. 

Eternal  light  and  joy 
Throughout  its  vast  domain; 

My  Sovereign  bids  me  tell 
How  mortals  there  may  dwell, 

And  that’s  my  business  for  my  King! 

The  cornet  could  not  speak  the  words,  but  the  heart  of  David  sang 
them  as  he  played,  and  the  spirit  of  them  was  potent. 

“Davie,  lad !”  Tom  Thompson  stood  upon  his  feet.  Scarce  knowing 
that  she  did  so,  the  wife  stood,  too. 

“Aye,  Tom,  poor  boy,  what  is  it?  Shall  I play  again?”  . 

“Play! — Pray!  >1=  * * God  be  merciful  * * a sinner!” 

and  partly  of  his  own  accord,  partly  fallen  because  he  could  not  stand, 
Tom  Thompson  fell  prone  at  the  feet  of  the  young  man. 

David  prayed.  His  hands  were  unable  to  reach  the  head  that  lay 
across  his  own  helpless  limbs,  but  the  hands  of  his  faith  took  hold  on  the 
strength  of  the  faith-honoring  King  who  can  do  in  human  souls  what 
they  cannot  do  for  themselves  or  another.  The  comrades  outside,  pray- 
ing men,  came  in  and  knelt  beside.  The  wife  bowed  with  her  husband. 
The  little  children  came  wide-eyed  from  their  hiding  places.  And  sober- 
ing came : for  He  who  can  still  a sea  with  a word  can  arrest  the  tide  of 
drunkenness  in  mind  and  body  with  the  same  word  of  His  power.  Came 
repentance;  came  forgiveness;  came  the  washing  of  regeneration  by 
faith  in  Him  whose  blood  was  shed  for  such  as  these;  came  peace;  came 
the  dawn  of  a new  manhood,  after  tears  of  true  sorrow  had  done  their 
honest  work. 

It  was  almost  sunset  when  the  little  company  broke  up.  His  friends 
were  about  to  turn  David’s  chair  — for  he  was  now  too  exhausted  to 
help  himself  — to  the  door,  when  he  held  up  his  hand  and  stopped  them. 

“I  think  I had  better  tell  you  all,”  he  said,  a curious  tremor  in  his 
voice,  “that  Tom  here  is  not  the  only  one  who  has  seen  victory  in  his 
soul  this  afternoon.  Reconciliation  has  come  to  me,  too ! Oh,  yes,  \ 
needed  it,  dear  friends.  It  has  been  hard” — he  dropped  his  voice  almost 


40 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


to  a whisper — “hard,  so  hard,  to  be  entirely  reconciled  about  — this,” 
and  he  laid  his  hands  upon  his  helpless  limbs.  “But  I saw  a vision  this 
afternoon!  I wish  you  would  sing  — I am  too  tired  to  play,  I think  — 
the  chorus  again ; it  is  for  me  this  time !” 

They  could  not  sing  strong  and  clear  at  first,  for  their  hearts  were 
^full.  Mrs.  Thompson  could  not  sing  at  all.  As  the  chorus  filled  the 
little  kitchen  where  the  setting  sun-rays  smiled  upon  the  wreck  that  was 
the  last  wreck  drink  would  ever  make  in  that  home,  she  held  David’s 
hands  fast  in  hers  and  her  husband  clasped  all  in  his. 

This  is  the  message  that  I bring, 

A message  angels  fain  would  sing: 

“O  be  ye  reconciled!”  thus  saith  my  Lord  and  King, 

“O  be  ye  reconciled  to  God!” 

David  McNair,  reconciled  to  his  “accident,”  saw  with  glad  vision 
that  when  God  wills  He  can  use  a crippled  boy  as  a sacred  medium  to 
bear  the  Gospel  message  of  victory  over  sin  to  lost  souls ; a message 
angels  fain  would  sing! — Ada  Melville  Shaw  in  Epworth  Herald. 

A THREE-FOLD  VICTORY. 

Clang!  sounded  the  bell  on  the  schoolmaster’s  desk  at  the  close  of 
the  afternoon  session  of  the  village  school,  bringing  the  children  instantly 
to  their  feet.  The  youthful  students,  eager  for  a welcome  release,  were 
ready  to  bound  outwards  as  soon  as  they  received  the  word  of  command. 
Little  wonder  they  stood  erect,  with  hands  behind  their  backs,  and  as 
quiet  as  the  trees  adjoining  the  playground  amidst  the  stillness  of  the 
early  summer  afternoon.  They  had  been  taught,  to  their  sorrow,  that  the 
least  infraction  of  the  dominie’s  rules  would  bring  swift  punishment  upon 
the  head  of  the  culprit;  The  silence  was  now  intense,  all  the  more  since 
they  longed  for  their  liberty  outside. 

“Jamie  Soutar  will  remain  behind !”  was  the  precipitous  word  of  the 
dominie.  It  came  with  a suddenness  to  the  “bully”  of  the  school  that 
made  him  tremble  from  head  to  foot.  Already*  he  had  visions  of  the 
leather  tawse  that  had  calloused  his  hand,  if  not  his  heart. 

One  more  touch  of  the  bell  and  the  children,  with  military  precision, 
marched  out,  leaving  Jamie  Soutar  face  to  face  with  the  dominie. 

Time  had  dealt  kindly  with  Dominie  Menzies,  and  his  days  were  not 
vexed  with  the  numerous  intricacies  of  the  present  modern  school  board 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


41 


laws  and  requirements.  He  was  practically  his  own  master.  So  long 
as  he  was  able  to  measure  up  to  the  ideals  of  the  parochial  authorities 
he  would  be  left  undisturbed  in  his  efforts  to  cultivate  the  minds  of,  the 
youth  of  the  parish.  ’ 

The  dominie  had  never  married.  Village  gossips  were  right  for  once 
in  their  rumor  that  a love  disappointment  in  his  earlier  days  accounted 
for  his  bachelorhood.  Locked  up  in  the  old  man’s  heart  were  thoughts 
of  happy  times,  long  since  past  but  not  forgotten.  Love  to  him  was  like 
smoke  that  rose  from  out  of  the  sad  past,  with  fumes  of  sighs  for  what 
might  have  been  — to  him  and  her. 

“Jamie,  come  forward !”  The  lad  obeyed.  Still  trembling,  but  now 
with  growing  confidence  since  he  had  seen  the  dominie  lock  the  strap 
in  the  desk.  Besides,  the  gentler  tone  in  the  master’s  speech  unnerved 
him.  He  was  prepared  for  a thrashing,  but  not  for  kind  words.  Even 
the  whitened  locks  of  the  dominie  that  had  been  touched  with  the 
invisible  fingers  of  rolling  years,  appealed  to  the  lad  as  never  before. 

“Jamie,  sit  down,”  the  master  said,  looking  the  boy  in  the  eye  as  he 
took  a seat  in  front  of  him.  The  whole  proceedings  were  as  mysterious 
to  the  “bully”  as  were  the  “Decrees  of  God,”  taught  him  in  the  Shorter 
Catechism.  The  first  word,  however,  was  like  the  proverbial  straw  in 
the  stream,  showing  which  way  the  tide  was  running. 

“Jamie,  I saw  and  heard  some  things  that  grieved  me  greatly  on  my 
way  to  school  after  the  noon  hour  to-day.  As  you  seemed  to  be  the 
leader  in  the  miserable  affair,  I have  given  you  this  opportunity  to 
explain  matters.” 

Jamie  was  clean  trapped  and  fixed,  as  much  as  the  hare  he  had 
trapped  in  his  poaching  expedition  the  night  previous,  and  there  was 
no  way  of  escape.  He  could  say  nothing  at  first,  and  the  silence  that 
followed  the  dominie’s  words,  spoken  in  tender  tones,  hurt  him  worse 
than  the  strap  had  ever  done,  which  is  saying  a great  deal. 

“Have  you  nothing  to  say  for  yourself?”  asked  the  dominie,  now 
opening  the  desk  and  lifting  from  it  the  leather  tawse. 

“Weel,  sir,”  he  ventured  to  say,  finding  his  voice  at  last.  “We  just 
called  her  ‘Drunken  Mag,  the  toon’s  hag.’  ” 

“Jamie,”  said  the  master,  replacing  the  strap  in  his  desk  and  putting 
his  hand  kindly  on  the  boy’s  head.  “Jamie,  suppose  Margaret  MacDonald 
had  been  your  mother.  Would  you  have  calle-d  her  by  that  name? 
Would  you  have  permitted  the  other  boys  to  have  said  the  same?”  The 


42 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


dominie  had  pierced  an  unprotected  part  of  the  “bully’s”  armor,  as  he 
exclaimed  with  indignation  in  his  eye  — “I  wadna  hae  stood  it,  sir!” 
And  the  clenched  fist  of  the  lad  assured  the  master  that  he  spoke  the 
truth.  Jamie  was  seeing  things  in  a different  light.  The  master  was 
reaching  the  boy’s  heart,  if  by  an  unbeaten  pathway. 

“So ! And  what  else  did  you  say,  Jamie?”  he  asked  with  an  encourag- 
ing mood. 

“We  spiered' at  her  what  was  the  price  o’  a bawbee’s  worth  o’  shoe 
strings;  what  she  had  in  her  meal  pock  besides  meal.  You  see,  sir,  she 
had  just  come  oot  o’  the  Bull  Head  public-house.” 

By  this  time  the  old  schoolmaster  had  walked  towards  one  of  the 
windows  and  was  looking  out  as  if  seeing  something  invisible.  Jamie 
could  not  understand  it  at  all.  The  proceedings  were  worse  to  him  than 
the  biggest  licking  he  had  ever  received.  Little  wonder  be  longed  for 
his  liberty.  Coming  back  and  sitting  down  beside  the  lad  once  more,  the 
dominie  said:  “Yes,  Jamie,  go  on.  What  else  did  you  say?” 

“We  cried  oot: 

‘Drunken  Mag  lives  alane, 

Ayont  the  cauld  Girdle  Stane, 

The  drunken  Hag  will  never  marry. 

Because  she  jilted  poor  Harry.’  ” 

Had  this  effusion  been  directed  towards  another  subject  or  object  the 
old  master  might  have  seen  some  humor  in  this  juvenile  doggerel.  As  it 
was,  the  old  man  only  looked  sad,  while  Jamie  felt  burdened  with  a load 
of  shame.  He  could  not  get  out  of  his  mind  the  master’s  question  — 
‘Suppose  Margaret  McDonald  was  your  mother?”  Besides,  he  had  never 
before  heard  anyone  call  the  unfortunate  woman  “Margaret,”  while  her 
last  name  had  been  unknown  to  him  until  that  hour. 

“And  so  you  said  something  to  her  about  ‘marriage’,  did  you  not? 
And  what  did  she  say  in  reply,  Jamie?” 

“She  said,  sir,  that  ‘while  some  folk  ca’  her  daft;  she  wasna  sae  daft 
as  tae  marry.’  Then  she  ran  after  us,  staggering  like,  and  chased  us  tae 
the  school.” 

“And  that  was  your  ‘fun,’  Jamie?” 

“I’ll  never  dae  it  again,  sir,”  the  lad  cried,  as  the  tears  coursed  down 
his  face.  He  was  thinking  about  his  mother. 

The  dominie  arose  once  more  and  walked  toward  his  desk.  Unlock- 
ing it,  he  took  from  it  the  formidable  leather  tawse.  Jamie  knew  his  time 
had  come  once  more.  He  didn’t  care.  He  felt  he  deserved  all  that  was 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


43 


coming  to  him,  and  was  fully  prepared  for  the  worst  that  might  happen. 


“Stand  up,  Jamie !”  Instantly  the  boy  was  upon  his  feet.  Intuitively 


he  held  out  his  hand  for  the  deserved  and  expected  punishment.  But 
Jamie’s  surprise  merely  deepened,  for  there  was  neither  rage  in  the 
master’s  speech  nor  fire  in  his  eye. 


44 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


“Jamie,”  the  dominie  said  at  last,  “you  see  what  I have  in  my  hand?” 

“Yes,  sir,”  he  replied,  without  a tremor  now.  The  “bully”  had  seen 
the  strap  often  and  felt  it,  too.  The  tawse  and  Jamie  were  near  related. 

“You  can  have  your  choice,  Soutar  — either  the  biggest  thrashing 
I’ve  ever  given  you,  or  off  to  the  hovel  beyond  the  Girdle  Stone  and  tell 
Margaret  how  sorry  you  are  for  your  day’s  work,  promising  her  never 
to  do  it  again  — which,  Soutar?” 

“Baith,  sir,”  replied  the  lad,  with  bowed  head. 

“What  do  you  mean  by  ‘both?’  ” 

“Just  that,  sir.  Lick  me  as  sair  as  ye  want  to.  I’ll  gang  toe  the 
Girdle  Stane,  tae!  Ye  are  richt,  Maister  Menzies;  what  if  Mag  had 
been  my  ain  mither?” 

The  master  had  won  a double  victory ; not  only  was  he  much  greater 
than  he  who  takes  a city,  in  that  he  had  ruled  his  own  spirit,  but  he 
had  won  the  lad’s  heart.  There  were  two,  instead  of  one,  engaged  from 
that  hour  in  the  work  of  transforming  a poor  outcast  from  society. 

“Go,  Jamie,  and  heaven  help  you,”  were  the  parting  words  of  the 
old  schoolmaster. 

It  was  a long  and  lonely  walk  for  the  lad.  Far  past  his  own  home 
he  went.  Careless  now  of  rabbits'  bounding  across  the  path,  or  of  birds 
flying  from  their  nest,  because  of  his  near  approach.  Even  the  song  of 
the  lark  and  the  hum  of  insects  were  as  nothing  to  him.  “What  if  Mag 
had  been  his  own  mither?” 

Having  passed  the  Girdle  Stone  — a barren  rock  seen  for  quite  a dis- 
tance, and  known  by  that  name  to  all  in  the  Scottish  village  — Jamie 
Soutar  drew  near  to  the  tumble-down  cottage  known  as  “hame”  to 
drunken  Mag  — the  only  name  she  was  known  by  to  all  save  two  persons 
now.  With  a new-born  courage  the  lad  approached  the  door  that  stood 
ajar.  He  knocked,  at  first  gently,  but  with  no  response.  Then  with  a 
much  louder  sound,  until  he  heard  the  voice  not  unknown  to  him.  “Wha’s 
there?”  she  said. 

“It’s  me,”  responded  Jamie  bravely. 

“An’  wha  are  ye?” 

“Jamie  Soutar  wants  tae  speak  tae  ye.”  And  then  he  heard  a noise 
that  made  him  breathless  for  a second.  Sure  enough,  Mag  bounded 
towards  the  door  like  a wild  tigress.  She  had  recognized  the  voice  of 
an  old  tormentor.  The  time  of  her  vengeance  had  come.  Grabbing  him 
by  the  hair  she  fairly  shrieked  with  glee. 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


45 


“I’ve  got  ye  noo,  Jamie  Soutar.  Certa,  but  ye’ll  get  mair  than  is 
cornin’  tae  ye!”  And  Jamie  saw  stars  in  the  day-time.  His  pnnishmenf 
was  most  severe.  Panting  hard,  she  tried  to  make  of  the  lad  what  the 
had  threatened  to  do  — a “dish-cloot” — out  of  him.  When  she  had 
finished,  because  of  a lack  of  strength,  Jamie  found  an  opportunity  to 
say  “Margaret  MacDonald.”  It  proved  the  “Open  Sesame”  to  her  mind 
and  called  for  a truce.  There  was  only  another  who  knew  her  full  name 
in  all  the  region  round  about.  How  did  the  boy  know? 

“Tell  me  quick,  ye  scoundrel,  hoo  ye  ken  my  name,  or  I’ll  lick 
ye  mair!” 

“The  dominie !”  was  all  he  said.  Mag  sobered  down  at  once.  There 
was  a charm  to  her  about  the  name  that  made  her  still  as  the  leaves  of 
the  trees  outside.  She  was  another  woman. 

“Come  inside,”  she  said.  But  Jamie  was  unable  to  get  up.  The 
thrashing  had  been  too  much  for  him ; besides,  the  blood  that  trickled 
from  his  nose  made  him  a sorry  object  to  look  upon. 

The  faint  spark  of  womanly  feeling  had  been  now  lanned  into  a 
small  flame  of  pity,  as  she  helped  Jamie  to  get  on  his  feet,  for  she  had 
done  her  work  of  vengeance  well. 

Come  inside,  laddie.  I’ll  wash  your  face  for  ye.  I’ll  ‘mask’  a cuppie 
o’  tea  for  ye  and  ye’ll  sune  be  a’  right.” 

When  her  mad  work  had  been  undone  by  these  tender  and  wel- 
come ministries,  Mag  said,  “Hoo  did  the  dominie  tell  ye  my  name?” 
And  it  was  given  to  the  erstwhile  “bully”  to  relate  his  experiences  with 
the  schoolmaster  that  afternoon.  But  her  exclamation  and  interjections 
about  her  “Johnnie”  of  the  long  ago  were  as  mysterious  to  the  boy 
as  the  depths  of  the  sea. 

“Margaret  MacDonald,”  said  Soutar,  as  he  rose  to  go,  having  made 
a free  and  glad  confession  of  his  many  sins  against  her,  “the  first  bairn 
wha  calls  ye  names  in  my  hearing  again  gets  thrashed,  if  I hae  tae  gang 
tae  jail  for  it.  But  dinna  gang  tae  the  ‘Bull’s  Head’  ony  mair,  Margaret ; 
keep  yer  bawbees  tae  yersel’.” 

That  night  was  quiet  and  still ; the  stars  peeped  out  one  by  one,  no 
unwelcome  moon  shed  a radiance  over  the  path  she  knew  so  well  that 
led  to  the  dominie’s  lodgings.  For  once  the  “Bull’s  Head”  public-house 
seemed  to  have  no  attraction  for  her.  She  drew  near  with  stealthy  step 
and  slow,  until  she  took  up  her  position  by  the  window  of  the  dominie’s 
room,  which  had  been  left  open  at  the  foot.  She  could  see  him  now. 


46 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


although  he  was  not  aware  of  her  presence.  His  head  was  covered 
with  his  hands  as  his  elbows  rested  on  the  table.  At  length  he  fell  on 
his  knees  and  spoke  in  familiar  tones  to  his  Unseen  Friend. 

“O  Lord,”  he  said,  wjth  power  and  passion,  “convert  her  from  the 
error  of  her  ways  before  it  be  too  late.  Polish  her,  as  a bright  jewel 
for  the  king’s  crown.  Amen.” 

As  he  rosp  from  his  knees  he  was  conscious  of  a tapping  at  the 
window  pane  outside.  Walking  towards  the  window,  still  open,  he 
looked  out  and  said,  “Who’s  there?”  “John,  come  oot!”  was  all  he 
heard,  but  it  was  enough. 

Outside  they  met  and  talked.  The  conversation  was  not  long  but 
effectual. 

“John,”  she  said,  “I  heard  ye  pray.  So  did  God.  I’ve  heard  ye 
often,  though  ye  didna  ken  it.  Mony  a nicht  I’ve  crept  up  here  and 
heard  ye  pray  for  me,  and  ye  hae  kept  me  frae  suiside.  John,  ye  hae 
kept  me  oot  o’  hell.” 

“Margaret,  I have  not  forgotten  the  time  when  ye  were  a bonnie 
Highland  lassie,  as  pure  as  the  lily  in  the  dell.  We  will  not  speak  about 
the  dark  past  and  what  might  have  been.  Margaret,  a Greater  says : 
‘Sin  no  more.’  I’m  not  long  for  this  world.  If  you  mean  it,  there  is 
something  in  the  bank  for  you  when  I am  dead  and  gone.  And,  IMar- 
garet,  if  you  can  spare  it,  help  Jamie  Soutar.  He  is  a likely  lad,  and 
I would  like  to  see  him  through  Edinburg  University.  Just  another 
word,  Margaret,  keep  a flower  in  Blossom  at  my  headstone.  Good-bye, 
Margaret.” 

She  was  as  good  as  her  word  in  after  days.  The  marks  of  sin 
were  hard  to  remove  from  her  wrinkled  face,  but  she  lived  a “white” 
life,  in  better  surroundings;  neither  did  she  forget  Jamie  Soutar,  al- 
though he  could  never  understand  it  all  perfectly.  By  the  prayers  of 
Dominie  Menzies,  the  kindly  feelings  of  Jamie  Soutar,  plus  the  grace 
of  God,  Margaret  MacDonald  was  transformed  by  the  renewing  of  her 
mind  and  heart. — Rev.  Wm.  T.  Dorward  in  Scottish  American. 

AN  ANGEL  IN  A SALOON. 

One  afternoon  in  the  month  of  June, , a lady  in  deep  mourning, 

and  followed  by  a child,  entered  one  of  the  fashionable  saloons  in  the 
city  of  N . The  writer  happened  to  be  passing  at  the  time,  and, 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


47 


impelled  by  curiosity,  followed  her  in  to  see  what  would  ensue.  Stepping 
up  to  the  bar  and  addressing  the  proprietor,  who  happened  to  be  present, 
she  said : 

“Sir,  can  you  assist  me?  I have  no  home,  no  friends,  and  am  unable 
to  work.” 

He  glanced  at  her,  and  then  at  the  child,  with  a mingled  look  of 
curiosity  and  pity.  Evidently  he  was  somewhat  surprised  to  see  a 
woman  in  such  a place  begging,  but,  without  asking  any  questions,  gave 
her  some  change ; then  turning  to  those  present,  he  said : 

“Gentlemen,  here  is  a lady  in  distress.  Can’t  some  of  you  assist  her 
a little?”  They  all  cheerfully  acceded  to  this  request,  and  soon  a purse 
of  two  dollars  was  raised  and  put  in  her  hand. 

“Madam,”  said  the  gentleman  who  gave  her  the  money,  “why  do 
you  come  to  a saloon?  It  isn’t  a very  proper  place  for  a lady,  and  why 
are  you  driven  to  such  a step  ?” 

“Sir,  I know  it  isn’t  a proper  place  for  me  to  be  in,  and  you  ask  why 
I am  driven  to  such  a step.  I will  tell  you  in  one  short  word,”  pointing 
to  a bottle  behind  the  door  labeled  “Whiskey,”  “that  is  what  has  driven 
me  to  this  — Whiskey.  I was  once  happy  and  surrounded  by  all  the 
luxuries  that  wealth  could  procure,  with  a fond  and  indulgent  husband. 
But  in  an  evil  hour  he  was  tempted,  and  not  possessing  the  will  to  resist 
that  temptation,  fell,  and  in  one  short  year  my  dream  of  happiness  was 
over,  my  home  forever  broken  and  desolated,  and  the  kind  husband  and 
the  wealth  some  called  mine,  lost,  lost,  never  to  return ; and  all  by  the 
accursed  wine-cup. 

“You  see  before  you  only  a wreck  of  my  former  self,  homeless  and 
friendless,  with  nothing  left  me  in  this  world  but  this  little  child.”  And 
weeping  bitterly,  she  affectionately  caressed  the  golden  curls  that  shaded 
a face  of  exquisite  loveliness.  Regaining  her  composure,  and  turning 
to  the  proprietor,  she  continued : 

“Sir,  the  reason  I occasionally  enter  a place  like  this,  is  to  implore 
those  who  deal  in  the  deadly  poison  to  desist,  to  stop  a business  that 
spreads  desolation,  ruin,  poverty  and  starvation.  Think  one  moment 
of  your  own  loved  ones,  and  then  imagine  them  in  the  situation  I am  in. 
I appeal  to  your  better  nature,  I appeal  to  your  heart,  for  I know  you 
possess  a kind  one,  to  retire  from  a business  so  ruinous  to  your  patrons. 

“Did  you  know  that  the  money  you  receive  across  this  bar  is  the 
same  as  taking  the  bread  from  out  of  the  mouths  of  the  famished  wives 


48 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


and  children  of  your  customers?  That  it  strips  the  clothes  from  their 
backs,  deprives  them  of  all  the  comforts  of  life,  and  throws  unhappiness, 
misery,  crime,  and  desolation  into  their  once  happy  homes?  Oh!  sir,  I 
implore,  beseech,  and^  pray  you  to  retire  from  a business  you  blush  to  own 
you  are  engaged  in  before  your  fellow-men,  and  enter  one  that  will  not 
only  be  profitable  to  yourself,  but  to  your  fellow-creatures  also.  You 
will  excuse  me  if  I have  spoken  too  plainly,  but  I could  not  help  it  when 
I thought  of  the  misery  and  unhappiness  it  has  caused  me.” 

“Madam,  I am  not  offended,”  he  answered  in  a voice  tremulous  with 
emotion,  “but  thank  you  from  my  heart  for  what  you  have  said.” 

“Mamma,”  said  the  child  — who  in  the  meantime  had  been  spoken 
to  by  some  of  the  gentlemen  present  — taking  hold  of  her  mother's 
hand,  “these  gentlemen  wish  me  to  sing  ‘Little  Bessie’  for  them.  Shall 
I do  so?” 

“Yes,  darling,  if  they  wish  you  to.” 

They  all  joined  in  the  request,  and'  placing  her  in  a chair,  she  sang 
in  a sweet,  childish  voice  the  following  beautiful  song: 

Out  in  the  gloomy  night  sadly  I roam, 

I have  no  mother  dear,  no  pleasant  home; 

No  one  cares  for  me,  no  one  would  cry. 

Even  if  poor  little  Bessie  would  die. 

Weary  and  tired.  I’ve  been  wandering  all  day. 

Asking  for  work,  but  I’m  too  small,  they  say; 

On  the  damp  ground  I must  lay  my  head. 

Father’s  a drunkard,  and  mother  is  dead! 

We  were  so  happy  till  father  drank  rum. 

Then  all  our  sorrow  and  trouble  begun; 

Mother  grew  pale  and  wept  every  day, 

■ Baby  and  I were  too  hungry  to  pjay; 

Slowly  they  faded,  till  one  summer  night 
Found  their  dead  faces  all  silent  and  white; 

Then  with  big  tears  slowly  dropping,  I said. 

Father’s  a drunkard,  and  mother  is  dead! 

Oh!  if  the  temperance  men  would  only  find 
Poor  wretched  father,  and  talk  very  kind; 

If  they  would  stop  him  from  drinking,  why  then, 

I should  be  so  very  happy  again! 

Is  it  too  late,  temperance  men?  Please  try. 

Or  poor  little  Bessie  must  soon  starve  and  die. 

All  the  day  long  I’ve  been  begging  for  bread. 

Father’s  a drunkard,  and  mother  is  dead! 

The  games  of  billiards  were  left  unfinished,  the  cards  were  thrown 
aside  upon  the  counter;  all  had  pressed  near,  some  with  curiosity,  some 


fl  o 

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- ° S 

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CC  p 

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CQ  ^ 
. 03  5° 


CHRISTMAS  MORNING  IN  THE  DIlUNKi^D’S  HOME. 

One  of  the  saddest  and  most  pitiful  sights  imaginable  is  the  empty  stockings  on 
Christmas  morning.  These  little  ones.  Trho  have  looked  forward  to  this  great  day 
of  rejoicing,  find  only  an  empty  bottle. 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


49 


with  sadness,  and  some  with  pity  beaming  from  their  eyes,  entranced  with 
the  musical  voice  and  beauty  of  the  child,  who  seemed  to  be  better  fitted 
to  be  with  angels  above  than  in  such  a place. 

The  scene  I shall  never  forget  to  my  dying  day,  and  the  sweet 
cadence  of  her  musical  voice  still  rings  in  my  ears,  and  every  word  of 
the  song,  as  it  dropped  from  her  lips,  sank  deep  in  the  hearts  of  all  those 
around  her. 

With  her  golden  hair  falling  carelessly  around  her  little  shoulders, 
her  face  of  almost  ethereal  beauty,  looking  so  trustingly  and  confidingly 
upon  the  men  around,  her  beautiful  blue  eyes  illuminated  with  a light 
that  seemed  not  of  earth,  she  formed  a picture  of  purity  and  innocence 
worthy  the  genius  of  a poet  or  painter. 

At  the  close  of  the  song  many  were  weeping;  men  who  had  not  shed 
a tear  for  years'  now  wept  like  children.  One  young  man  who  had 
resisted  with  scorn  the  pleadings  of  a loving  mother  and  the  entreaties 
of  friends  to  strive  to  lead  a better  life,  to  desist  from  a course  that  was 
wasting  his  fortune  and  ruining  his  health,  now  approached  the  child, 
and  taking  both  her  hands  in  his,  while  tears  streamed  down  his  pale 
cheeks,  exclaimed  with  deep  emotion : 

"God  bless  you,  my  little  angel ! You  have  saved  me  from  ruin  and 
disgrace,  from  poverty  and  a drunkard’s  grave.  If  there  ever  were  angels 
on  earth,  you  are  one.  God  bless  you.  God  bless  you !”  And  putting 
a bill  in  the  hand  of  the  mother,  said,  “Please  accept  this  trifle  as  a token 
of  my  regard  and  esteem,  for  your  little  girl  has  done  me  a kindness 
no  wealth  can  ever  repay.  And  remember,  whenever  you  are  in  want, 
you  will  find  in  me  a true  friend,”  at  the  same  time  giving  her  his  name 
and  address. 

Taking  her  child  by  the  hand,  she  turned  to  go,  but,  pausing  at 
the  door,  said: 

“God  bless  you,  gentlemen ! Accept  the  heartfelt  thanks  of  a poor, 
friendless  woman  for  the  kindness  and  courtesy  you  have  shown  her.” 
Before  any  could  reply,  she  was  gone. 

A silence  of  several  minutes  ensued,  which  was  at  last  broken  by  the 
proprietor,  who  exclaimed': 

“Gentlemen,  that  lady  is  right,  and  I have  sold  my  last  glass  of 
whiskey;  if  any  of  you  want  more,  you  will  have  to  go  elsewhere.” 

“And  I have  drunk  my  last  glass  of  whiskey,”  said  a young  man 
who  had  long  been  given  up  as  utterly  beyond  the  reach  of  those  who 


50 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


had  deep  interest  in  his  welfare,  thinking  that  he  had  sank  too  low  to 
reform.  “There  is  a temperance  organization  in  this  city,  and  at  the 
next  meeting  I shall  send  up  my  name  to  be  admitted.  Who  will  go 
with  me?” 

“I — I — I — I — I,  and  I !”  several  exclaimed  in  a chorus,  and  fifteen 
names  were  added  to  his. 

True  to  his  word,  the  owner  of  the  saloon  tvhere  this  strange  scene 
was  enacted  disposed  of  his  entire  stock  the  next  day,  and  is  now 
engaged  in  an  honorable  business. 

Would  to  heaven  that  lady  with  her  little  one  could  have  gone  into 
every  hamlet,  town  and  city  throughout  our  country,  and  met  with  like 
results. — A True  Incident  in  Temperance  Truths. 

CAPTAIN  NED  AND  THE  DRAGON. 

“And  the  dragon  ravaged  the  land  until  none  were  safe,”  read  Aunt 
Kate  to  Captain  Ned,  as  he  lay  snuggled  comfortably  under  blankets  on 
the  couch,  sick  with  a cold.  “It  snatched  strong  men  as  they  went  to 
their  work.  Then  came  a band  of  brave  knights,  the  flower  of  the 
nation,  and  guarded  all  the  highways  where  the  men  must  pass.” 

“O  my,”  interrupted  Ned  with  a sigh,  “It  must  have  been  splendid 
living  in  those  days  — with  dragons  and  things  to  fight.” 

“And  you  really  don’t  think,  Ned  Baxter,  that  the  dragons  are  all 
dead?”  asked  a voice  from  the  dormer  window,  as  the  curtains  parted 
and  showed  the  face  of  Uncle  Rob,  just  home  from  college.  “Don’t  you 
believe  it;  the  woods  are  full  of  them.  I know  a frightful  one  in  this 
very  neighborhood.” 

Ned  turned  toward  his  uncle  a face  like  unto  an  animated  question 
mark. 

“Yes,  sir,  in  this  very  neighborhood,”  continued  Uncle  Rob.  “Every 
year  it  snatches  away  strong  men  from  their  families,  and  crushes  the 
life  out  of  them,  or  cripples  them  or  takes  away  their  senses.  St.  George’s 
dragon  isn’t  in  it  with  this  one.  There  is  need  of  whole  armies  of  brave 
knights  to  fight  it.” 

Ned’s  eyes  were  big  with  wonder. 

“Look  quick.  There  goes  one  of  the  dragon’s  victims  down  the 
street  this  minute,”  said  Uncle  Robert. 

Ned  threw  the  blankets  quite  off  and  sat  bolt  upright  to  look  out 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


51 


of  the  window  back  of  the  couch.  But  all  he  saw  was  Jim  Wilkins 
staggering  home. 

“O,  Uncle  Rob,  then  you  don’t  mean  a real  dragon,  but  something 
like  the  saloon  — something  that  makes  men  drink  whisky  and  things?” 
he  asked. 

“Exactly;  but  it’s  a much  more  real  dragon  than  the  one  in  the 
story  book.” 

“But  what  could  soldiers  — or  knights  — do  with  that  kind  of  a 
dragon?”  asked  Ned  curiously. 

“H’m,”  mused  Uncle  Rob  thoughtfully,  “Thinking  of  the  Light 
Brigade,  Cap’n?” 

Ned  blushedi  A number  of  Ned’s  friends  and  companions  had 
banded  themselves  together  under  the  name  of  “The  Light  Brigade,” 
and  every  afternoon  after  school  faithfully  drilled  in  the  yard  back  of 
Ned’s  house. 

Uncle  Rob  thought  a minute  before  he  answered  his  nephew.  Then 
he  said  seriously:  “Ned,  I believe  there  is  a way  that  your  Light 
Brigade  could  do  real  service  in  saving  men  from  this  dragon.”  After 
that  they  had  a long  talk  about  it,  which  gave  Captain  Ned  much, to 
think  about. 

One  Saturday  a week  or  more  after  the  talk,  Ned  overheard  Mrs. 
O’Flaherty,  as  she  scrubbed  the  kitchen  floor,  telling  his  mother,  “Yes, 
ma’am,  Mike,  he’s  thrying  to  do  better;  but  it’s  awful  weak  he  is,  and 
he’s  a lot  worse  since  he  came  back  from  the  war  in  Cuby.  Still  he’d 
keep  straight,  Mike  would,  if  ’twasn’t  for  that  awful  trip  past  Whisky 
Row  every  Saturday  night,  when  he’s  jest  got  his  pay  from  the  factory. 
I’m  just  goin’  to  pray  every  blissid  minute  this  day,  ma’am,  that  some- 
thing’ll get  him  past  that  place  to-night.” 

“That’s  a dragon  case,  sure,”  thought  Ned. 

That  night  when  the  factory  whistle  blew  for  closing,  the  Light 
Brigade, ■’with  Captain  Ned  at  its  head,  keeping  time  t6  the  rat-a-tat-tat 
of  Ben  Brown’s  drum,  and  the  martial  airs  that  Ned  Jenkins  played  on 
his  small  fife,  marched  up  to  the  entrance  of  the  factory  and  halted. 
Captain  Ned’s  eyes  searched  for  the  sandy  hair  of  Mrs.  O’Flaherty ’s 
Mike.  When  he  found  him,  he  approached  with  a real  soldierly  salute: 
“Mr.  Michael  O’Flaherty,  I believe.  I came  to  see  if  you’d  give  us  boys 
a bit  of  advice  about  military  tactics,  knowing  you  were  in  the  Spanish- 
American  war.  If  we  could  just  march  along  beside  you  on  your  way 


52 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


home,  while  you  tell  us,  so  as  not  to  take  your  time,  we’d  be  awful 
grateful.” 

Mike’s  ruddy  face  flushed  with  pleasure,  and  he  willingly  promised. 
Thus  it  happened  that  the  regular  Saturday  night  customer  of  the 
saloons  forgot  to  stop  and  take  the  fateful  “first”  drink.  It  was  easy 
for  Captain  Ned  to  suggest  that  the  experiment  be  repeated,  and  thus 
it  became  the  regular  thing  for  the  little  company  to  escort  veteran 


The  March  of  the  Light  Brigade. 


O’Flaherty  home  each  Saturday  night.  Under  Uncle  Rob’s  wise  advice, 
other  ways  of  cheating  the  dragon  of  victims  was  discovered,  as  well, 
but  that  is  another  story. 

One  afternoon  Ned’s  Aunt  Kate  interrupted  the  drill  to  present  the 
boys  with  a beautiful  banner  upon  which  appeared  the  prostrate  figure 
of  a dragon,  by  the  side  of  which  stood  a knight,  his  foot  upon  the 
creature’s  neck. 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


53 


“Say,  boys,”  said  Captain  Ned,  “I  don’t  think  our  mothers  would 
ever  want  us  to  fight  on  a real  battle  field,  but  let’s  just  forever  keep 
on  fighting  the  old  dragon.” — Julia  F.  Deane  in  Union  Signal. 

LITTLE  JIM. 

The  day  was  warm  as  Simon  Tanner  slouched  on  the  shady  side  of 
the  street  on  his  way  to  the  public  house  to  have  a “half-pint”  for  the 
fourth  time  that  morning,  and  the  hand  of  the  church  clock  had  not  yet 
recorded  the  hour  of  eleven.  In  appearance  Simon  was  a compound  of 
the  broken-down  petty  tradesman,  a carpenter  long  out  of  employment, 
and  a man  who  would  not  work  at  all ; but,  as  a matter  of  fact,  he  was 
a jobbing  carpenter,  who  worked  a little  when  he  was  obliged,  and  idled 
whenever  he  felt  he  could  do  without  the  fear  of  being  deprived  of  the 
drink  that  was  dearer  to  his  heart  than  anything  else  on  earth. 

He  had  a home  and  a wife  and  children,  all  in  sad  harmony  with  a 
drunkard’s  life  — the  one  bare  of  furniture,  and  the  other  half  starved, 
dejected  and  utterly  miserable. 

“I  want  a pint  of  beer,  Mr.  Bouncer,  and  I’ll  pay  you  this  afternoon, 
if  you  don’t  mind,”  said  Simon  to  the  publican. 

“No  go,”  said  Mr.  Bouncer,  drawing  a glass  for  himself  and  drinking 
before  the  very  eyes  of  the  thirsty  Simon,  thereby  inflicting  upon  him 
unnecessary  pain.  “You  can’t  have  the  beer,  because  you  won’t  pay. 
And  besides,  better  watch  you  ain’t  put  on  this  ’ere  black  list.” 

Hoping  that  somebody  of  a more  amiable  turn  of  mind  than  the 
landlord  might  come  in  and  “stand  him  a drink,”  Simon  ruefully  took  a 
seat  on  a tub  at  the  back  of  the  bar,  and  sought,  with  indifferent  success, 
to  ward  off  his  thirst  by  reading  the  police  reports. 

The  bar  was  empty  at  that  time,  but  in  a few  minutes  others  came 
in — three  men  in  the  holland  suits  worn  by  painters  and  house  decorators. 
Simon  was  deep  in  a case  of  wife-beating  arising  from  drink  — in  which 
he  had  a sort  of  sympathetic  feeling,  having  occasionally  given  a few 
blows  to  Mrs.  Tanner  instead  of  bread  when  she  asked  for  it  — when  a 
roar  of  laughter  from  the  men  caused  him  to  look  uo  to  find  what  had 
given  rise  to  the  merriment. 

It  was  a little  child,  a boy  with  a wan  face  that  spoke  volumes, 
standing  just  within  the  door.  The  few  rags  he  had  upon  his  poor, 
little,  pinched  frame  were  not  worthy  of  the  name  of  clothes,  and  his 


54 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


little  feet  were  thrust  into  a pair  of  battered,  dingy  boots  big  enough 
for  a man.  It  was  the  boots  the  painters  were  laughing  at,  and  at  first 
sight  the  appearance  of  the  child  was  undoubtedly  ludicrous. 

But  their  laughter  soon  ceased.  The  boots  might  be  absurd,  but 
the  little  limbs  almost  lost  in  the  huge  proportions  of  the  battered 
coverings  to  his  feet  were  touching  to  look  upon,  and  when  the  men 
lifted  their  eyes  to  the  sad  face  they  became  silent.  The  child  was  mute 
too.  He  simply  stood  there  with  his  eyes  asking  for  bread. 

The  man  nearest  to  him,  a big,  black-whiskered  fellow,  with  a kind 
face,  broke  the  silence.  “Halloo,  little  Jack,”  he  said;  “what  do  you 
want  ?” 

“My  name  isn’t  Jack,  it’s  Jim,”  replied  the  child ; “and  I want  a bit 
of  bread.” 

“Poor  little  fellow !”  said  the  man.  “Here,  master,  give  us  a biscuit 
for  the  boy.  What  a shame  for  a man  to  send  his  child  about  in  his 
old  boots !” 

“Not  old  boots!”  said  the  boy,  with  a shrewd  look  — “father’s  best 
Sunday  boots.” 

This  drew  out  another  roar  of  laughter,  and  one  of  the  men,  hoisting 
the  child  up,  cried  out,  “Look,  mates  I here’s  a pair  of  best  Sunday  boots 
for  you.  What  a nice,  respectable  father  he  must  be  if  the  rest  of  his 
clothes  are  only  like  them  I”  and  they  all  laughed  again. 

“Father  never  gives  me  anything,”  said  Jim,  quickly,  “ ’cept  knock 
’bout  my  head.  Stones  in  the  hard  road  cut  my  feet,  so  I put  his 
boots  on.” 

“Well,  little  chap,”  said  the  man  who  had  Jim  in  his  arms,  putting 
him  upon  his  feet,  “I  see  you’ve  got  hard  lines  of  it.  Go  home  and  tell 
your  father  to  knock  off  his  drink  for  a week,  and  get  you  a proper 
pair  of  boots.” 

The  child  laughed  now  in  his,  turn,  but  he  did  not  explain  why  he  did 
so,  nor  did  anybody  ask  him  why.  They  understood  that  laugh,  for  it 
was  without  merriment,  and  they  knew  as  well  as  the  child,  how 
improbable  it  was  that  a man  given  to  drink  would  listen  to  any  appeal 
but  that  of  his  awful  craving.  Little  Jim,  with  the  remains  of  one 
biscuit  in  hand  and  the  other  hugged  to  his  breast,  went  out  of  the 
public  house,  with  his  big  boots  slouching  and  swinging  about  his  tender 
little  feet,  and  the  men  went  back  to  their  beer. 

And  who  is  this  that  has  listened  with  bitter  shame  to  all  that 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


55 


passed,  cowering  behind  the  newspaper  to  hide  his  burning  cheeks? 
Simon  Tanner,  the  idle,  dissolute  drunkard,  the  father  of  little  Jim. 


Yes,  it  was  his  own  child  who,  unconscious  of  the  full  depth  of  the 
iniquity  of  the  story  he  was  telling,  had  laid  bare  his  shame  to  strangers. 
The  child,  even  with  closed  lips,  was  a silent  witness  against  him;  his 
tongue  had  given  such  confirmation  that  none  could  doubt.  Even  Mr. 
Bouncer,  who  was,  of  course,  a sturdy  defender  of  the  theory  of  strong 


56 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


drinks  being  beneficial,  was  compelled  to  admit  that  in  this  case  it 
would  be  better  if  the  father,  whoever  he  was,  took  a little  less. 

“All  I can  say  is,”  said  the  man  who  had  paid  for  the  first  biscuit, 
“that  I would  not  stand  in  that  man’s  shoes  for  a mint  of  money.” 

“And  how  do  you  know  you  won’t  one  day?”  cried  Simon  Tanner, 
springing  to  his  feet  and  glaring  at  him  with  sudden  fury.  “Do  you 
think  I was  always  a drunkard?  I was  once  as  good  a man  as  you,  if  not 
better,  and  it’s  the  drink  that’s  brought  me  down.” 

“So  you  are  the  father  of  that  boy,”  said  the  man  — “a  nice  fellow 
you  must  be.” 

“Yes,  I am,”  replied  Simon;  “and  don’t  you  go  calling  me  hard 
names,  for  your  turn  may  come,  and  the  turn  of  all  of  you,  and  if  the 
drink  does  get  hold  of  you,  then  you  will  understand  why  that  poor  little 
chap  was  driven  to  do  what  he  did.  That  landlord  there  knows  me,  and 
he  knows  I spend  every  penny  I earn  in  this  house ; and  yet  this  morning 
when  I wanted  him  to  trust  me  one  pint,  he  said  ‘No.’  He  even  jeered 
at  me  and  warned  me  not  to  get  put  on  the  black  list.  My  word.  I’ll 
take  his  advice  in  a way  he  won’t  like.” 

“You  always  had  beer  for  your  money,”  Mr.  Bouncer  interrupted, 
“and  there’s  no  reason  why  I should  give  it  to  you  for  nothing.” 

“I  suppose  not,”  replied  Simon;  “you’ve  got  the  law  and  prejudice 
on  your  side,  and  there’s  everything  against  me;  but  I’m  not  going  to  be 
beaten.  My  child  has  put  a new  spirit  into  me  to-day,  and  I’ll  tell  you 
what  I’m  going  to  do,  and  that  is,  by  God’s  help,  I’ll  never  touch  drink 
again.  Do  you  hear?  NeAmr  touch  it  again!  And  when  I’m  a decent 
man  I’ll  come  again  here,  and  stand  outside  and  tell  the  people  my  story.” 

“If  you  come  here  and  make  a disturbance,”  said  ]\Ir.  Bouncer, 
loftily,  “I’ll  have  3'ou  locked  up.” 

“I  shan’t  make  any  disturbance,”  returned  Simon,  as  he  moved 
towards  the  door ; “therein  be  no  need  to  do  that.  The  very  look  of 
drunken  Simon,  as  I’m  called,  in  good  clothes  will  be  enough  to  set 
people  thinking,  and  if  any  of  them  choose  to  ask  me  a question,  I shall 
be  at  liberty  to  answer  it,  I suppose.” 

Strong  in  his  resolve,  Simon  Tanner  turned  his  back  upon  “The 
Sorcerer,”  leaving  behind  him  in  the  bar  a little  knot  of  perturbed, 
astonished  men. 

Only  his  wife  was  at  home  in  their  miserable  room,  busy  with  some 
rough  sewing  she  obtained  from  a shop  in  the  town,  by  means  of  which 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


57 


she  got  the  children  the  little  food  that  fell  to  their  lot,  and  she  started 
up,  hearing  the  noise  he  made,  fearing  from  his  haste  he  was  coming 
home,  as  he  often  did,  in  a violent  temper.  She  was  thankful  all  the 
children  were  out  playing  about  the  street  with  other  little  sufferers. 
She  was  always  anxious  to  spare  them  the  misery  of  seeing  their  father 
at  his  worst. 

But  he  was  changed,  and  the  change  was  startling.  He  rushed  at 
her,  it  is  true ; but  instead  of  the  blow  and  the  curse,  he  took  her  in  his 
arms,  and,  holding  her  tightly,  sobbed  like  a child.  “Pray  God  to  help 
us,  Polly,”  he  said;  “I’m  going  to  try  to  be  a better  man.”  She  heard 
him,  and  fell  a-sobbing  too. 

Simon  had  been  kind  to  her  once.  When  first  they  married  he 
promised  well,  and  was  gentle  to  her;  but  before  their  first  child  was 
born  he  had  become  a follower  of  Mr.  Bouncer.  From  that  time  there 
was  no  peace  or  happiness;  naught  but  quarreling,  want  and  rapid  ruin. 
None  of  the  children  had  hitherto  seen  their  father  at  his  best.  They  had 
no  notion  he  ever  was,  or  could  be,  anything  but  what  he  had  been  to 
them  since  they  were  born.  There  were  four  of  them,  and  the  eldest,  a 
girl,  was  just  nine  years  of  age.  Coming  in  at  this  moment,  she  did 
not  know  whether  to  scream  or  be  glad  when  her  father  caught  her  in 
his  arms  and  kissed  her. 

While  Simon  Tanner  was  holding  his  child  to  his  heart,  the  two 
next,  a boy  and  a girl,  came  in,  and  as  soon  as  they  could  fairly  com- 
prehend what  had  passed,  lent  their  gladness  to  the  general  joy. 

The  last  to  arrive  was  little  Jim,  who,  with  the  cunning  born  of  the 
street  life  he  led,  left  the  shoes  he  had  borrowed  for  awhile  on  the  land- 
ing outside.  He  had  not  seen  his  father  at  the  public  house  because  the 
paper  hid  him  from  view,  and  he  had  no  suspicion  of  his  little  paccadillo 
having  been  discovered,  or  of  the  good  it  had  effected.  He  was  greatly 
astonished  and  frightened  at  first  when  his  father  raised  him  in  his  arms, 
and  with  a glad  smile  asked  him  for  his  shoes. 

A few  hours  before  and  he  might  have  denied  having  sieen  them,  for 
the  dread  of  being  cruelly  treated  will  often  lead  a child  to  lie;  but  the 
smile  disarmed  him,  and  he  told  where  they  were.  Simon  Tanner  went 
out  and  fetched  them,  and  bade  his  wife  put  them  away. 

“We  will  keep  these,”  he  said,  “and  I trust  in  God  to  lead  me  aright, 
so  that  when  Jim  is  a man  he  may  be  thankful  for  the  day  he  put 
them  on.” 


58 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


A few  minutes  afterwards  Simon  was  out  seeking  work,  and  by  night 
he  had  found  a little  to  do.  ' On  his  return  home  he  found  Robert  Brown, 
the  painter  who  gave  Jim  the  biscuit,  waiting  to  see  him. 

“I  thought  I would  find  you  out  and  have  a talk  with  you,”  he  said, 
“for  it  is  a pity  such  good  resolutions  as  you  and  I made  today  should 
ever  grow  cold.  The  lesson  I had  — and  you  taught  it,  though  you  didn’t 
think  so  — I never  can  forget.  I have  a wife  and  children,  too,  and  I 
don’t  think  I need  say  more  than  that  I shuddered  as  I thought  of  what 
drink  might  bring  to  them.  I am  going  to  sign  the  pledge.  Will  you 
come  with  me?” 

A ready  affirmation  was  given,  and  with  Simon  Tanner  carrying 
little  Jim  in  his  arms,  as  proud  of  him  as  if  he  had  been  a prince  of  royal 
blood,  they  went  to  a well-known  temperance  worker  in  the  district  and 
put  down  their  names.  On  their  way  home  Robert  Brown  unburdened 
his  mind  of  something  he  had  had  upon  it  all  day. 

“Here’s  a boot-shop,”  he  said,  pulling  up,  “and  I want  you  to  let  me 
buy  Jim  a pair  that  will  fit  him.  It’s  a poor  little  gift  for  what  he  has 
done  for  me  this  day.” 

It  was  a generous  offer  not  to  be  refused  on  any  account,  and  they 
went  into  the  shop,  where  little  Jim,  in  a dream  of  delight  — he  could 
hardly  believe  it  was  real  — was  fitted  up  with  a pair  of  sound  boots, 
with  sufficient  ornament  about  them  to  please  his  childish  fancy,  and 
strong  enough  to  stand  the  tests  of  ordinary  wear. 

They  did  not  cost  much ; but  no  king  on  gaining  additional  territory 
ever  knew  the  unqualified  delight  the  little  fellow  felt  that  night  as  he 
strutted  from  the  shop  in  his  new  possessions. 

Of  all  that  followed  it  would  require  a little  book  to  tell.  Little  by 
little  Simon  Tanner  made  his  home  full  of  simple  delights  and  pure  joy, 
such  as  no  votaries  of  drink  could  ever  know,  let  them  say  what  they 
will ; and  if  he  did  not  actually  carry  out  his  threat  to  stand  against  the 
door  of  “The  Sorcerer,”  a living  proof  of  the  benefits  of  temperance,  to 
teach  the  men  who  squandered  their  earnings  there,  the  change  in  his  life 
was  still  sufficiently  well  known  to  do  some  good  and  excite  the  unswerv- 
ing but  unavailing  animosity  of  Mr.  Bouncer. 

The  children  are  growing  up,  little  Jim  among  them,  and  the  day  is 
not  far  distant  when  the  old  shoes  will  be  a better  fit  than  they  were  in 
his  infant  days,  and  shouM  he  desire  to  put  them  on  once  more,  they  are 
still  preserved  and  at  his  service.  He  will  never  wear  them  again,  but 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


59 


whatever  he  may  think  of  the  shoes  of  the  past,  he  will  never  be  ashamed 
to  put  on  those  his  father  wears  at  the  present  time.  God’s  guidance  is 
daily  prayed  for  in  Simon’s  family,  and  the  blessing  which  “maketh  rich” 
rests  on  his  happy  home. — Lincoln  Magazine. 

JANIE  ELLIOTT’S  CHRISTMAS. 

Janie  Elliott  looked  down  at  her  shabby  shoes  with  eyes  which  were 
slowly  filling  with  tears.  How  could  she  go  to  school  with  such  things 
upon  her  feet?  Only  yesterday  Bertha  Crane  had  looked  scornfully  at 
her,  and  she  had  heard  her  whisper  to  one  of  the  girls,  “Before  Fd  wear 
such  looking  shoes  as  that — ” 

Janie  had  her  natural,  girlish  pride,  and  shoes  were  a very  essential 
part  of  it.  It  was  all  so  new,  too,  and  unexpected  poverty  is  almost 
harder  to  bear  than  where  one  has  always  been  accustomed  to  it  and 
knows  nothing  else.  Mrs,,  Elliott  came  in  as  Janie  stood  looking,  and 
her  arm  stole  about  the  child’s  waist  as  she  drew  her  close  to  her  heart. 
“Little  Janie.  Patient  litle  Janie,”  she  said  sadly. 

“No,  mother.  I’m  not  patient.  I’m  not  patient  at  all,”  sobbed  the 
child,  almost  fiercely.  “Why  is  it  that  father  doesn’t  take  care  of  us  as 
he  used  to  do?  Why  do  we  not  have  food  and  clothes  as  other  people 
have  ?” 

The  mother  sighed  heavily.  She  dreaded  to  add  to  Janie’s  burdens 
the  shame  of  knowing  that  her  father  was  fast  becoming  a confirmed 
drunkard.  Sickness  had  always  been  his  excuse  when  he  came  into  the 
presence  of  his  children  with  staggering  steps  and  an  aching  head,  and 
Mrs.  Elliott  had  borne  in  silence,  and  kept  back  the  truth  for  the  sake 
of  the  children,  of  whom  Janie  was  the  oldest.  “O  Janie,  don’t  you 
know?  Cannot  you  guess?” 

“Why,  no,  mother.  The  girls  looked  at  me  so  queerly  the  other 
day  as  they  were  talking  about  Retta  Paulsen,  the  saloonkeeper’s 
daughter,  who  is  in  our  room  at  school.  She  wears  such  lovely  clothes.” 

“Yes,  darling,  it  is  our  poverty,  and  that  ofVany  others  like  us, 
that  supplies  them,”  cried  the  mother,  the  sharp  pain  in  her  heart 
wrestling  the  truth  from  her  almost  before  she  realized  it.  “If  father 
had  not  learned  the  way  to  Paulsen’s  saloon  we  should  have  all  we 
need  as  well  as  they.” 

“O  mother !”  cried  Janie  in  a heart-broken  voice,  as  she  turned  and 


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STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


threw  her  arms  around  her  mother’s  neck,  and  together  they  sobbed  out 
their  shame  and  grief  with  broken  words  of  loving  comfort  for  each  other. 

“It  began  since  father  went  to  work  in  the  new  factory,  for  when 
Paulsen  built  his  saloon  so  near,  it  was  like  a trap  always  ready  to  catch 
the  hundreds  of  men  that  had  to  pass  it  to  get  to  their  homes.  For 
months  father  kept  away  from  it;  we  must  give  him  credit  for  that. 
Then  they  caught  him  with  the  bait  of  the  pay  roll.” 

“The  pay  roll?”  echoed  Janie  in  bewilderment. 

“Yes;  the  men  are  paid  off  Saturday  night,  and  the  company  pays 
in  cheques  instead  of  cash,  and  of  course  the  men  want  their  money. 

“The  banks  are  closed  at  that  hour,  but  Paulsen  is  ready.  He 
borrows  thousands  of  dollars  for  the  occasion,  and  stands  at  the  door, 
smiling  and  persuasive.  ‘Walk  right  in,  boys,  and  get  your  cheques 
cashed,’  and  in  they  go.  Of  course  they  are  grateful  for  the  accommo- 
dation, and  buy  a glass  by  way  of  courtesy.  Of  course,  too,  they  under- 
stand that  Paulsen  expects  that  every  man  will  not  only  ‘take  something’ 
himself  but  treat  his  friends,  and  before  they  realize  it  a big  slice  of 
their  week’s  wages  is  left  in  the  saloon  till. 

“Paulsen’s  ‘courtesy’  costs  him  nothing  but  a day’s  interest  on  his 
borrowed  money,  and  he  fills  his  pockets  with  the  hard-earned  money 
of  the  men.” 

“O  mother  — and  father  goes  there!  That  is  why  he  has  so  little 
to  bring  home  when  he  earns  so  much.” 

The  mother  sighed  again.  “He  is  not  even  earning  so  much,  dear. 
The  drink  makes  his  once  steady  hand  trembling  and  uncertain,  and  he 
has  already  been  threatened  with  discharge.  He  has  gone  down  so 
fast,  yet  he  will  not  own  it,  and  is  so  angry  when  I venture  to 
speak  of  it.” 

“O  mother,  mother;  what  can  we  do?”  sobbed  Janie,  her  young 
heart  filled  with  terror  and  distress. 

“We  can  only  pray,  Janie.  With  God  all  things  are  possible.” 

They  were  both  Christians,  the  sorrowing  mother  and  her  daughter, 
and  prayer  was  not  an  untried  source  of  relief,  though  faith  was  nearly 
dead  in  the  heart  of  the  discouraged  mother  who  had  known  of  the  evil 
so  long,  and  had  prayed  against  it  so  earnestly.  It  came  like  a shock  to 
Janie,  and  explained  many  things  which  had  wounded  her  sensitive 
heart.  The  pitying  glances  of  some  of  her  school  friends,  the  sneers 
of  others,  she  had  been  so  slow  to  understand,  and  it  all  came  home  to 


STORIES  OF  HELL'S  COMMERCE 


6i 


with  a rush  that  she  was  that  object  of  pity,  a drunkard’s  daughter. 

Poor  Carrie  Lane,  with  her  hollow  cheeks  and  ragged  gown,  had 
been  the  object  of  her  sincere  compassion  when  she  came  to  school  with 
tearful  eyes  and  the  marks  of  Joe  Lane’s  heavy  hand  upon  her,  and  noAV 
Janie  realized  that  she  herself  was  the  object  of  the  same  compassion 
from  others.  The  knowledge  made  her  so  sick  at  heart  that  she  threw 
herself  upon  her  little  bed  in  an  agony  of  grief,  feeling  that  she  could 
never  go  to  school  again  and  face  her  disgrace. 

A few  weeks  later  there  was  a great  convention  gathering  in  the 
city.  Women  were  pouring  out  of  the  incoming  trains,  with  white 
ribbons  pinned  conspicuously  upon  their  breasts,  and  a great  banner 
with  the  words,  “Welcome  W.  C.  T.  U.”  upon  it,  was  hung  across 
the  street,  from  the  convention  hall  to  the  hotel  opposite  where  the 
leaders  had  their  headquarters. 

The  saloonkeepers  and  the  brewers  of  the  city  would  gladly  have 
done  violence  to  that  banner  had  they  dared,  for  it  meant  enlightenment, 
liberty  from  the  slavery  of  drink,  and  death  to  the  traffic. 

James  Elliott  halted  on  his  way  as  he  passed  the  hall  one  evening. 
He  was  more  nearly  sober  than  he  had  been  for  weeks,  and  an  indefinable 
impulse  led  him  to  go  in.  His  mother  had  belonged  to  the  W.  C.  T.  U. 
years  ago,  and  he  had  been  interested  in  the  work  when  as  a young  man 
he  had  held  himself  above  temptation.  A strange  desire  to  hear  what 
was  being  said  within  the  building  seized  upon  him,  that  wireless 
telegraphy  between  himself  and  God  which  Janie’s  prayers  and  her 
mother’s  had  set  in  motion. 

James  Elliott  was  not  so  indifferent  to  his  own  condition  as  his 
wife  supposed,  and  his  anger  was  only  a form  of  expression  which  his 
conscience  used  to  silence  her.  He  loved  his  children  and  his  home 
still,  clouded  and  benumbed  as  the  love  was  by  liquor,  and  in  his  sober 
moments  conscience  upbraided  him  far  more  sharply  than  his  wife 
had  ever  done. 

There  was  an  eloquent  speaker  on  the  platform  as  he  went  in,  and 
she  was  reviewing  the  relation  of  the  workingman  to  the  liquor  question. 
She  showed  so  clearly  that,  more  than  any  other  class,  the  laboring 
man  needs  all  his  faculties,  all  his  earnings,  in  his  struggle  for  a living 
in  these  high-pressure,  competitive  times. 

Argument  piled  upon  argument,  and  persuasion  followed,  until  Mr. 
Elliott  felt  the  tears  of  conviction  and  earnest  resolve  trickling  down 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


liis  cheeks.  “I  will  be  a man,”  he  said  to  himself.  “God  helping  me, 
I will  no  longer  defraud  my  wife  and  children.  I have  been  a blind, 
obstinate  fool  to  allow  such  a man  as  Paulsen  to  trick  me  out  of  my 
manhood  with  a glass  of  liquor.”- 

Mrs.  Elliott  looked  up  in  surprise  when  her  husband  came  in  that 
night.  It  was  so  late  that  she  had  expected  him  to  come  in  more 
intoxicated  than  usual,  but  his  step  was  firm  and  his  figure  erect, 
though  he  said  nothing.  Janie’s  shoes  were  lying  by  a chair,  for  her 
mother  had  been  trying  to  make  them  more  presentable  for  the  morrow, 
and  he  picked  them  up  and  looked  them  over  with  an  expression  on  his 
face  which  she  could  not  fathom. 

It  was  the  beginning  of  a new  life  for  James  Elliott.  He  was  a 
man  of  more  than  average  intelligence,  and  well  qualified  to  become-  a 
leader  among  his  fellow  workmen,  and  it  was  not  long  before  a com- 
mittee of  three  waited  upon  the  president  of  the  works  with  a request. 

“If  you  could  realize  for  a moment  what  it  means  to  us  fellows, 
I am  sure  you  would  gladly  make  the  change,”  said  Mr.  Elliott  earnestly. 
“The  pay  cheque  system  throws  us  into  the  very  arms  of  the  saloon,  and 
I believe  it  is  responsible  for  a great  share  of  the  drinking  habits  among 
the  men.” 

Mr.  Price  heard  the  words  with  earnest  attention.  “I  believe  you 
are  right,  Elliott,  though  I had  never  before  looked  at  the  matter  in 
that  light.  I will  investigate,  and  if  I find  things  as  you  represent 
them,  I will  see  what  can  be  done  to  remedy  the  evil.” 

He  did  investigate.  Unnoticed  by  Paulsen  or  the  men,  he  stood 
where  he  could  hear  the  oily  persuasions  of  the  saloonkeeper  to  “have 
something  more,”  until  the  week’s  pa)”-  was  seriously  cut  into. 

Many  of  the  men  had  bills  against  them  which  ran  over  from  week 
to  week,  while  Paulsen  generously  allowed  them  a little  to  live  on. 
It  made  the  employer  sick  at  heart  to  see  how  completely  many  who 
should  have  been  saving  for  wife  and  children  at  home  w^ere  in  the 
toils  of  the  wily  dealer  in  drunkenness  and  poverty  — his  own  sleek, 
well-fed  figure  a strong  contrast  to  the  most  constant  of  his  customers. 

The  manufacturer  went  to  a bank  afterward,  and  saw  Paulsen  come 
in  with  a great  roll  of  cheques.  “Business  is  brisk,”  he  remarked  with 
laughing  satisfaction  as  he  made  a large  deposit. 

“Tell  me,  Mr.  Reeves,”  said  the  factory  owner  to  the  cashier,  a 
friend  of  his,  as  Paulsen  went  out,  “is  this  transaction  an  exceptional 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


63 


one  ? We  are  thinking  of  making  a change  and  beginning  cash  payment 
instead  of  by  cheques.” 

“It  would  be  a great  blessing  to  the  men  if  all  employers  would 
do  the  same,”  replied  the  cashier,  guardedly.  “You  would  be  astonished, 
Mr.  Price,  to  see  the  workingmen’s  cheques  which  pour  into  every  bank 
in  this  city  from  the  saloons.  I would  never  have  believed  it  if  I had 
not  come  in  actual  contact  with  it.” 

“And  every  one  represents  at  least  one  glass  of  beer,  or  somthing 
stronger,”  mused  Mr.  Price. 

He  was  a sturdy,  upright  man  to  whom  conviction  meant  con- 
version and  reform,  and  the  change  was  made  very  soon,  and  in  an 
earnest  and  convincing  speech  he  urged  his  employees  to  habits  of 
sobriety  and  temperance. 

“You  all  know  what  the  saloon  leads  to,  men;  not  one  among  you 
needs  to  be  convinced  of  the  evils  of  the  drink  habit,”  he  said  earnestly, 
and  a new  bond  was  there  formed  between  Capital  and  Labor  which 
strengthened  as  time  went  on. 

In  one  home  wonderful  changes  were  being  wrought.  Mr.  Elliott 
was  a skilled  workman  when  he  was  himself,  and  he  soon  regained  his 
skill  when  the  drink  habit  loosed  its  hold  of  him.  “We  must  make 
such  a Christmas  for  the  children  as  they  have  never  had  before,”  he 
said  to  his  wife  as  he  laid  his  week’s  pay  in  her  lap.  “Be  extravagant 
for  once,  Mary,  and  a little  atonement  for  what  I have  made  them  and 
you  suffer.” 

“The  very  best  Christmas  gift  they  can  have  is  a sober  father  who 
loves  them,”  replied  Mrs.  Elliott  with  a happy  smile. 

“That  may  be,  but  I should  not  make  a very  attractive  top  on  the 
Christmas  tree,  and  I want  it  filled  with  all  the  pretty  things  you 
can  find.” 

“Janie  must  have  the  best  pair  of  shoes  that  money  can  buy,  James,” 
said  his  wife.  “It  would  have  wrung  your  heart  to  see  how  she  suf- 
fered in  wearing  the  old  ones  as  long  as  she  did.” 

“It  did  wring  my  heart,  Mary  — every  rip  and  every  hole  cried  out 
to  me  like  a living  voice,  reproaching  me  for  my  wicked  folly,”  replied 
Mr.  Elliott,  gravely.  “They  were  a whole  temperance  lecture  in  them- 
selves.” 

“O  mother,  what  a lovely,  lovely  Christmas  we  have  had,”  said 
Janie,  as  her  mother  came  to  kiss  her  good-night.  There  was  a beautiful 


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STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


pair  of  shoes  standing  on  the  little  dresser,  and  a new  dress  of  soft 
crimson  wool  hanging  on  the  bedpost  where  she  could  see  it  at  the 
first  peep  of  daylight,  and  in  the  next  room  the  ornaments  of  a tall 
Christmas  tree  shimmered  in  the  firelight.  “How  happy  father  was.” 

“Yes,  darling,  father  was  happy,”  replied  the  mother,  with  a last 
tender  kiss,  “and  best  of  all,  Janie,  he  has  learned  to  pray.” — Mrs.  F.  M. 
Howard  in  Union  Signal. 

SAVED  BY  A TELEPHONE  MESSAGE. 

The  shock  of  his  father’s  death  was  a severe  blow  to  Harry  Grant, 
and  the  resulting  necessity  of  immediately  giving  up  his  university 
course  was  another.  His  father,  the  only  parent  he  had  ever  known, 
was  very  dear  to  him,  and  the  manner  of  his  death  — suddenly,  by  a 
railway  accident  — seemed  to  add  to  the  affliction.  A college  education 
had  been  the  supreme  ambition  of  his  life.  That,  too,  was  over ! He 
felt  like  a man  unexpectedly  robbed  of  his  all,  and  was  glad  that  an 
opening  for  work  came  in  a distant  city  far  away  from  those  who  had 
known  him,  in  the  office  of  a stranger  to  himself,  though  an  old-time 
friend  of  his  father. 

His  sorrow  did  not  do  him  good ; it  hardened  him.  The  God  whom 
he  had  been  taught  to  love  and  revere  appeared  to  him  in  the  light  of 
a hard-hearted  tyrant,  delighting  in  the  misery  of  his  people.  Bitterly 
disappointed  in  his  dearest  hopes,  sure  that  he  might  as  well  give  them 
up  first  as  last,  there  was  nothing  for  him  to  do  but  get  out  of  life  all 
the  pleasure  he  could  as  he  went  along  and  try  to  forget ‘his  dreams. 
Thus  he  reasoned.  No  wonder  that  in  such  a frame  of  mind  he  soon  fell 
into  poor  company  and  took  on  a species  of  mild  dissipation  scarcely 
to  be  expected  in  his  father’s  son. 

Mr.  Coburn,  the  young  man’s  employer,  a busy,  preoccupied  man. 
scarcely  noticed  the  youth  after  the  first  hour  of  greeting,  and  totally 
forgot,  him  in  the  month  that  followed,  until,  indeed,  Harry  was  sent 
to  the  office  with  some  special  message  and  was  thus  brought  into 
actual  contact  with  him.  The  changed  appearance  of  the  young  fellow 
then  forced  itself  upon  the  merchant’s  notice.  Not  that  the  youth's 
deterioration  was  so  marked  as  to  attract  the  attention  of  the  ordinary 
observer.  It  was  to  Mr.  Coburn  as  if  he  had  looked  at  his  new  clerk 
but  yesterday  and  again  to-day,  and  found  this  remarkable  difference 


HAVE  YOU  A BOY  TO  SPAKE? 

Jifty  to  sixty  thousand  drunkards  die  every  year.  The  saloons  cannot  run 
without  this  number  is  replaced  by  the  sons  of  America.  Are  you  willing  to  give 
your  boy  to  save  the  saloons  from  destruction? 


DEINK  PEODUCES  MOEE  POVEETY  THAN  ALL  OTHEE  CAUSES  COMBINED. 

A charity  station  for  the  relief  of  the  poor  and  needy.  Ninety  per  cent  of  those  applying 
for  help  attribute  their  condition  to  the  curse  of  drink. 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


65 


over  night;  for  the  la&t  remembrance  the  employer  had  of  this  young 
man  was  that  of  the  afternoon  of  his  arrival,  when  the  stranger’s  quiet, 
rather  sad  face  and  thoughtful  manner  had  made  a most  favorable 
impression.  Now  the  very  fashion  in  which  the  young  man  combed  his 
curly  hair  jarred  upon  the  gentleman,  and,  added  to  his  flashy  tie  and 
somewhat  assured  bearing,  disgusted  him. 

The  merchant  sat  long  after  the  youth  had  left  his  presence,  with 
a troubled  brow,  wondering  what  had  come  over  Bernard  Grant’s  son. 
He  did  not  like  the  change  in  him,  and  concluded  that  something  must 
be  done.  Harry  Grant’s  father  had  been  Mr.  Coburn’s  pastor  in  the 
early  days  of  his  Christian  experience.  He  had  not  meant  to  neglect 
his  friend’s  son.  He  went  out  of  his  way  that  afternoon  to  invite  the 
young  man  to  attend  a prayer  meeting  with  him,  and  was  rewarded  by 
a very  surprised  glance  and  the  excuse  of  a prior  engagement.  Not 
satisfied,  and  sure,  after  investigation,  that  the  lad  was  going  wrong,  he 
summoned  Harry  to  his  office  one  day,  determined  to  win  his  confidence 
if  possible  and  invite  him  to  enter  the  Sunday  school. 

“I’m  sorry  to  have  to  refuse  you  anything,  Mr.  Coburn,”  the  young 
man  smilingly  replied,  when  the  matter  of  church  and  Sunday  school 
attendance  was  introduced.  “But  I find  myself  too  weary  on  Sunday 
mornings  to  get  up  in  time  for  church,  and  I generally  spend  my  Sunday 
evenings  with  the  boys.  As  to  Sunday  school  — well,  the  fact  is.  I’ve 
outgrown  it.” 

“Your  father  never  did,”  said  Mr.  Coburn  gravely.  “I  want  to  ask 
you  in  all  kindness  if  you  think  your  present  course  would  meet  with 
his  approval?” 

The  young  man  was  embarrassed  and  visibly  moved  by  this  question. 
“It’s  too  late  to  consider  that  now,”  he  said,  and  left  the  office  abruptly. 
His  employer  bowed  his  head  upon  his  hands.  He  was  disappointed  and 
discouraged. 

* * 

“No!  you  do  not  mean  that  Bernard  Grant’s  son  is  going  wrong?” 

Mr.  Forsyth  turned  sharply  on  his  companion.  It  was  Mr.  Coburn, 
who,  having  been  summoned  to  a distant  part  of  the  state  on  business, 
had  taken  time  to  communicate  his  uneasiness  over  Harry  Grant’s  con- 
dition to  a friend  living  in  the  city  of  his  sojourn,  who  was  also  an  old 
friend  of  the  boy’s  father. 

“I’m  afraid  he  is.” 


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STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


“What  are  you  doing  for  him?” 

“Nothing.  I’ve  tried  to  reach  him,  but  he  repulses  me.  I am  very 
much  to  blame.  I neglected  him  when  he  first  came  to  me.  He  had 
to  leave  college  — his  father,  as  you  know,  was  never  able  to  save  a 
cent  while  he  found  so  many  needs  in  the  world  — and  I imagine  that 
disappointment  and  discouragement  have  led  the  boy  to  recklessness. 
He  seemed  a quiet,  gentlemanly  young  fellow,  and  I never  mistrusted 
everything  was  not  right  until  lately.  It’s  hard  for  me  yet  to  realize 
that  Grant’s  son  is  taking  the  wrong  road.” 

“He  must  be  stopped  at  once.  Can’t  you  contrive  some  excuse  for 
sending  him  here  to  me?  I’ll  find  a place  for  him.  New  associates  and 
a new  beginning,  with  the  hope  of  college  ahead,  may  effect  wonders. 
I’ll  take  him  right  into  my  family.  I should  never  forgive  myself  if  the 
son  of  the  man  to  whom  I owe  so  much  went  wrong  when  I could 
help  it.” 

All  that  busy  day  Mr.  Forsyth’s  thoughts  were  with  his  old  friend’s 
son.  “Beginning  to  drink,  attending  the  cheap  theater  and  dance,”  these 
were  things  Mr.  Coburn  had  hinted  at  in  the  life  of  the  son  of  the  man 
wh-o  had  led  him  to  Christ.  He  was  loath  to  wait  for  the  turn  of  affairs 
that  might  bring  the  youth  to  his  side.  He  believed  in  doing  immediately 
what  should  be  done.  At  eight  o’clock  that  night  he  was  at  the  long 
distance  telephone. 

“Some  one  wants  you  over  the  telephone.”  The  boarding-house 
maid,  who  had  rapped  at  Harry  Grant’s  door  and  distracted  him  in  the 
act  of  tying  his  cravat,  was  the  speaker. 

“A  ’phone  message  for  me?”  impatiently.  “Well,  hold  the  line. 
I’ll  be  down  presently.  Strange  how  everything  conspires  to  delay  me 
to-night !” 

There  was  to  be  a card-party  and  “feed”  at  a famous  resort  ten  or  a 
dozen  miles  from  the  city  that  evening,  and  several  autos  were  to  be 
pressed  into  service  to  carry  the  guests  to  the  spot.  Jerome  Rogers 
— wealthy  and  dissolute  — was  the  moving  spirit  of  the  affair  and  had 
engaged  to  carry  a number  of  young  couples  in  his  car.  He  had  been 
around  to  the  office,  just  before  closing,  to  assure  himself  of  Harry’s 
preserice,  and  was  then  partially  intoxicated.  Harry  had  laughingly 
advised  him  to  sober  up  if  he  intended  to  act  as  chauffeur,  and  was 
now  hastening  to  make  ready  to  join  him  at  the  residence  of  a lady 
friend.  He  had  been  delayed,  first  at  the  office,  then  by  being  obliged 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


67 


to  sew  on  a button ; now  came  this  tiresome  telephone  message.  He 
ought  to  be  starting  this  moment.  He  caught  up  the  receiver  hastily. 

“Is  this  Mr.  Harry  Grant?” 

“It  is.” 

“Son  of  the  late  Rev.  Bernard  Grant?” 

“Yes.” 

“Your  father’s  last  message,  delivered  here  at  N , was  from  the 

text,  ‘Wine  is  a mocker,  stronk  drink  is  raging,  and  whosoever  is 
deceived  thereby  is  not  wise.’  He  lost  his  life  that  very  night  by  a 
railway  accident  du-e  to  the  carelessness  of  a drunken  engineer.” 

Every  word  came  clear-cut  and  distinct.  Harry  Grant’s  face  paled 
as  he  listened.  “Who  are  you?”  he  inquired,  but  there  was  no  reply; 
the  receiver  had  been  hung  up  at  the  other  end  of  the  line. 

Moved  to  his  deepest  soul,  faint  and  sick,  the  young  man  flung 
himself  into  a.  chair  'as  soon  as  he  reached  the  privacy  of  his  own  room, 
and  covered  his  face  with  his  hands.  The  message  had  all  the  force  of  a 
voice  from  the  dead.  Why  had  it  come  ? For  days  he  had  been  refusing 
to  think  — indeed,  ever  since  that  talk  with  Mr.  Coburn,  and  now  — who 
could  the  stranger  be  that  had  called  him  up?  The  voice  was  unfamiliar 
and  he  knew  no  one  in  N . 

Agitated,  distressed,  ashamed  of  himself,  the  vision  of  his  father’s 
pure,  strong  face  and  holy  life  confronted  him  that  hour.  Did  that 
father  have  any  knowledge  of  his  son’s  doings?  Did  he  know  what  that 
son  had  become?  That  he  had  been  planning  that  very  night  to  attend 
a wine-party,  he  who  had  been  taught  to  shun  strong  drink  as  man’s 
most-to-be  dreaded  foe!  The  image  of  Jerome  Rogers  as  he  had  seen 
him  only  a few  hours  before  crossed  his  mind.  And  he  called  this  man 
his  friend,  his  intimate  ! 

With  the  thought  of  Rogers  came  the  remembrance  that  the  lady 
he  was  to  escort  to  the  party  was  still  waiting  for  his  coming.  What 
should  he  do?  He  consulted  his  watch;  the  hour  of  appointment  had 
long  since  passed;  they  must  have  gone  without  him  ere  this.  He  was 
not  sure  that  he  was  glad,  but  he  was  scarcely  sorry  that  he  must  miss 
the  affair.  The  why  of  his  hindering,  that  was  what  puzzled  him. 

The  young  man  did  not  sleep  that  night.  He  could  not  cease 
thinking.  An  aroused^  conscience  would  not  be  quieted.  Early  morning 
found  him  on  t-he  street  trying  to  walk  off  his  misery.  A newsboy  went 
by,  and  he  bought  a paper.  The  first  words  that  met  his  eyes  — in  big. 


68 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


glaring  type  — were  these;  “Auto  Accident!  Jerome  Rogers,  the  young 
society  man,  killed  instantly;  several  persons  seriously  injured.” 

The  printed  sheet  slipped  through  Harry  Grant’s  nerveless  fingers. 
The  horror  mirrored  in  his  eyes  had  an  admixture  of  awe.  He  had  been 
kept  from  participation  in  this  accident.  Why?  Whose  care  had  saved 
him?  In  that  moment  he  was  as  sure  of  his  father’s  God  and  His 
protecting  oversight  as  he  was  of  the  life-blood  throbbing  in  his  veins. 
He  bared  his  head  and  gave  thanks  silently  for  a chance  to  retrieve  his 
late  record. 

Harry  Grant  uses  the  telephone  constantly  in  his  Christian  and 
philanthropic  work.  He  says  he  owes  his  salvation,  body  and  soul,  to  a 
telephone  message. — Mrs.  S.  R.  Graham  Clark  in  Union  Signal. 

THE  FAITH  OF  HETTY  RIA 

“Somehow  or  other,”  said  Hetty  Ria  to  herself,  “I’ve  got  to  do  it. 
I,  Hetty  Maria  Jessup,  have  got  to  straighten  the  Jessup  family  out. 
Ma’s  lost  every  bit  of  spunk  she  ever  had'  since  Pa’s  got  so  bad,  and  the 
youngsters  don’t  care  whether  they  go  to  school  or  not,  long  with  the 
boys  and  girls  calling  them  ‘Old  Dan  Jessup’s  kids.’  Oh,  deary  me,  it’s 
almost  too  big  a job  for  a girl !” 

Hetty  Ria’s  head  sunk  forlornly  upon  her  folded  arms ; the  tangled 
brown  head  trembled  with  sobs,  and  all  alone,  on  the  back  steps  of  the 
rickety  cottage  she  called  home,  she  struggled  with  her  troubles.  Sud- 
denly Hetty  Ria  sat  up,  pushed  back  the  tangled  hair  with  her  chapped, 
rough  hands,  and  rubbed  her  wet  eyes. 

“I  wonder  if  He  would,  jest  wonder?”  she  questioned,  gazing  up  into 
the  clear  sky  as  though  she  half  expected  an  angel  to  appear  with  a 
golden  trumpet  and  answer  her.  “He  cured  the  blind  folks,  and  the  deaf 
and  dumb  folks,  and  even  those  awful  leper  folks.  Surely  He  could  cure 
pa.  My  sakes,  as  if  He  didn’t  cure  the  dead  ones,  too,  and  make  ’em 
all  new  I Course  He  can  cure  pa  if  He  wants  to.  I wonder  if  He  really 
wants  to.”  She  pondered  doubtfully  for  a minute,  then  assured  herself, 
“Hetty  Maria  Jessup,  what  are  you  thinking  about?  Didn’t  He  say, 
‘Suffer  little  children  to  come  unto  me?’  Course  He  loves  us,  every  single 
one  of  us,  even  if  we  ain’t  got  nice  clothes  and  shoes  and  things ; per- 
haps He  loves  us  all  the  more  for  that.  Didn’t  I tell  you,”  she  addressed 
the  sun,  just  sinking  in  the  west,  “didn’t  I tell  you  ’twas  too  big  a job  for 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


69 


a little  girl?  But  it  ain’t  too  big  a job  for  a little  girl  and  God  together,  I 
jest  guess.  I’m  going  to  get  the  youngsters  all  to  help,  and  we’ll  ask 
Him  every  single  day  for  one  whole  week.” 

The  idea  took  hold  of  the  childish  faith  of  the  younger  Jessups,  as 
Hetty  Ria  gathered  them  about  her  and  told  of  the  wonderful  things  the 
Jesus,  to  whom  they  were  to  pray,  could  do.  She  taught  them  all,  from 
lisping  baby  Jean  to  sturdy  Ben,  how  to  say  the  words  of  prayer.  In 
Hetty  Ria’s  ignorant  mind,  a prayer,  to  be  a really,  truly  prayer,  must  be 
said  in  a church,  and  this  part  of  the  program  seemed  hard  to  manage. 
Hetty  Ria  always  believed  it  was  a part  of  the  miracle  that  the  very  next 
afternoon  as  she  with  her  brother  and  sisters  were  coming  home  from 
school,  they  discovered  the  back  door  of  the  church  ajar.  Quietly  and 
seriously,  led  by  Hetty  Ria,  the  little  group  entered,  climbed  the  velvet- 
carpeted  stairs  to  the  big  room,  and  knelt  in  one  of  the  pews.  The  man 
who  played  the  organ  always  practiced  every  afternoon  at  about  this 
time,  and  that  was  the  reason  for  the  open  door.  As  the  children  entered, 
he  sat  idly  letting  his  fingers  wander  over  the  keys,  in  a gentle,  soothing 
accompaniment  to  his  thoughts.  The  minister,  tired  from  working  on 
his  sermon,  stole  in  from  his  study  and  took  a seat  in  the  church  to  listen. 
Suddenly  a sound  other  than  the  organ  music  , caught  the  minister’s  ear. 
It  came  from  a near-by  pew.  He  quietly  changed  his  seat  to  discover 
whence  came  the  sound.  There  he  saw  kneeling  in  the  pew  five  childish 
forms,  five  reverent  little  heads  bowed  upon  the  cushion,  Hetty  Ria’s 
brown  pigtails  at  one  end,  and  baby  Jean’s  sunny  tangle  of  curls  at  the 
other.  “J^^n  must  begin,  cause  she’s  the  littlest,”  instructed  Hetty  Ria, 
very  softly. 

“Dear  Jesus,”  lisped  the  baby  voice,  “Please  won’t  you  make  my  dear 
papa  a good  kind  one  again  like  he  used  to  be.  Amen.” 

“We’d  be  jest  awful  glad,  please,”  piped  up  Nell’s  shrill  voice,  “if 
You’d  make  our  pa  all  over  new  like  You  did  the  leper  men.  Thank 
You,  Oh,  no,  I mean  Amen.” 

Ben’s  joyish,  manly  voice  now  chimed  in.  “We’re  jest  counting  on 
Your  not  going  back  on  your  word.  Lord  Jesus,  cause  Hetty  Ria  says 
if  folks  honest  and  true  ask  You  for  things  that’s  right  to  have.  You  said 
You’d  sure  do  ’em,  and  Hetty  Ria  knows,  for  she  heard  the  minister 
say  it,  and  we  jest  believe  You’ll  do  the  right  thing  by  pa  and  us.  Amen.” 

“It’s  jest  the  same  thing  I want,  too,”  faltered  Lisbeth’s  gentle 


70 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


voice.  “Jest  to  have  our  papa  cured.  And  please  hurry  and  do  it 
right  away.” 

Hetty  Ria’s  voice  trembled  a bit,  as  she  closed,  “We  don’t  know 
much  about  praying,  dear  Lord  Jesus,  but  we  know  it  was  You  that 
said  the  children  could  come,  and  so  we’re  believing  You’ll  listen, 
even  though  we  don’t  say  it  quite  right  and  prayer-like.  We’d  be  so 
much  obliged  if  You  could  cure  pa  before  Ben’s  birthday.  It’s  a whole 
month  yet.  Amen.” 

The  minister  sat  as  quiet  as  a mouse,  as  five  pairs  of  feet  crept 
softly  down  the  aisle  and  out  of  the  door,  five  pairs  of  wistful  eyes 
looking  back  at  the  face  of  the  Christ  in  the  great  windows,  as  if  they 
expected  the  lips  to  part  and  the  Master’s  voice  to  speak  to  them. 

“Dear  Lord  and  Master,”  murmured  the  minister  fervently,  as  he 
watched  little  Jean’s  golden  head  disappear  through  the  door,  “Thou 
who  canst  make  the  dead  to  live,  save  this  father,  and  Master,  let  me 
have  a share  in  it.” 

Hetty  Ria  lay  awake  that  night  until  the  clock  was  striking  the  long, 
long  hours,  wondering  just  how  God  would  cure  her  father.  She  won- 
dered if  He  might  not  send  great  throngs  of  white-robed  angels  down 
from  heaven  to  hover  around  him  and  keep  the  tempters  from  coaxing 
him  to  drink  the  poison  that  made  him  so  unlike  himself.  She  even 
thought  that  possibly  He  might  send  one,  like  the  angel  in  the  Garden 
of  Eden,  to  stand  with  a flaming  sword  before  Jim  Mulchay’s  saloon  to 
keep  such  sorely  tempted  men  as  her  father  from  going  in.  She  thought 
and  thought,  until  her  thinking  changed  to  dreaming,  and  the  air  seemed 
full  of  angels,  whose  soft,  gentle  fingers  soothed  and  comforted  the  tired, 
worried  child  into  a dreamless  slumber. 

Whether  or  not  Hetty  Ria  would  have  recognized  them  as  angels, 
the  fact  remained  that  within  forty-eight  hours  after  the  children  left 
the  church,  angels,  dressed  not  in  white  robes,  but  in  common,  every-day 
dress,  were  busy  helping  to  answer  the  children’s  prayers. 

“If  ever  there  was  a message  went  straight  up  to  God’s  throne,” 
said  the  minister  at  least  a dozen  times  the  next  day,  “I’m  sure  the 
prayer  of  those  babies  did.  The  father  to  children  of  such  great  faith 
is  surely  worth  saving.”  Not  only  did  he  say  this  a dozen  times,  but 
he  said  it  to  as  many  as  a dozen  people,  and  those  dozen  people,  stirred 
to  their  hearts’  core,  lost  little  time  in  repeating  it.  It  was  remarkable 
how  many  men  remembered  within  the  next  few  days  that  they  had  jobs 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


71 


about  their  houses  or  stores  that  Dan  Jessup  mig'ht  do.  It  was  even 
more  wonderful,  to  Dan  Jessup  at  least,  that  well-dressed,  respectable 
business  men  should  take  the  trouble  to  stop  him  on  the  street  and  take 
him  by  the  hand  in  greeting. 

“Anybody’d  think,”  said  Dan  to  himself,  “that  I’d  fallen  heir  to  a 
big  fortune,  by  the  fuss  they’re  making.  What’s  the  matter  with  me,  I 
wonder?  I’m  jest  the  same  old  bum  I was  last  week  when  they  hurried 
past  jWith  their  heads  turned  the^  other  way  for  fear  I’d  ask  ’em  for  a 
dime  to  buy  a glass  of  beer.” 

Nevertheless,  to  his  continued  surprise,  people  did  make  occasion 
to  speak  to  him  and  to  offer  him  jobs  of  fixing  sidewalks  or  storm  doors, 
treating  him  like  a gentleman  while  he  was  doing  the  work,  and  never 
failing,  it  seemed  to  Dan,  to  speak  of  his  fine  little  family,  whom  every- 
body seemed  to  know,  especially  Hetty  Ria.  He  wouldn’t  admit  it  to 
himself,  but  by  the  second  day  Dan  began  secrety  to  brush  his  rid 
clothes  and  rub  up  his  shabby  shoes. 

The  greatest  surprise  came,  however,  when,  tempted  beyond  the 
strength  of  his  feeble  will  by  the  possession  of  a shining  silver  dollar 
paid  by  Mrs.  Williams  for  fixing  her  chicken  house,  Dan  wended  his 
way  toward  Mulchay’s  dram-shop,  and  was  met  at  the  bar  with  a gruff 
“Hello,  Dan.  Can’t  give  you  anything  to-night.  Sorry,  but  can’t.  Folks’ll 
make  trouble  for  me  if  I do.”  Dan  stared. 

“Folks?”  he  inquired  angrily.  “What  folks  is  trying  to  run  my 
business  ?” 

“Folks  as  ain’t  got  business  enodgh  of  their  own,  I guess,”  answered 
the  saloon-keeper.  “They  say  there’s  laws  against  selling  to  such  men 
as  you,  and  for  the  sake  of  your  kids,  they’re  going  to  see  it  stopped. 
Say,  Dan,  why  can’t  you  go  it  moderate  like,  and  not  be  making  trouble 
for  me?” 

Dan  Jessup  turned  and  left  the  place,  without  a word.  “For  the 
sake  of  the  children.”  The  words  ran  through  his  angry  thoughts. 
Everybody  seemed  possessed  to  talk  about  the  children  lately,  and  now 
for  their  sake  somebody  had  shut  the  doors  of  the  saloon  upon  him. 
It  was  the  minister  of  the  big  church  who  interrupted  his  gloomy 
thoughts. 

“Oh,  Mr.  Jessup,  the  very  man  I was  looking  for.  Have  you  a half 
hour  this  afternoon  to  give  me?  It’s  to  put  up  some  shelves  in  my 


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STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


study  in  the  church.”  Dan,  having  no  excuse,  followed  the  minister.  It 
was  nearly  dusk  before  the  job  was  finished. 

“Just  sit  down  in  that  pew  a minute,”  said  the  minister,  “while  I 
run  up  and  see  if  the  organist  can  change  a bill  so  I can  pay  you.” 

As  Dan  sat  in  the  corner  of  the  church,  the  little  group  filed  in,  as 
the  minister  felt  sure  they  would  at  just  that  hour,  and  knelt  and  offered 
again  the  prayer  that  their  father  might  be  made  well.  What  Dan 
Jessup  thought  as  he  listened,  no  human  being  knows.  He  never 
moved  as  they  passed  out,  Hetty  Ria  saying  cheerfully,  “It’s  a whole 
week  now  we’ve  been  a-praying,  it  surely  won’t  take  much  longer.  He 
surely  won’t  forget  to  do  it  before  Ben’s  birthday.” 

Hours  after  the  minister  and  organist  had  left  the  church,  and  the 
sun  had  sunk  behind  the  hills  and  the  moon  had  risen  and  was  shining 
through  the  window,  revealing  the  face  and  form  of  the  Christ,  Dan  sat 
and  thought  and  thought,  and  at  last  dropped  upon  his  knees  and  prayed 
the  prayer  of  the  publican,  “Lord,  be  merciful  to  me,  a sinner!” 

That  night,  late  as  was  the  hour  of  his  return,  five  little  Jessups  had 
the  unusual  experience  of  being  kissed  “good-night”  by  their  father.  As 
if  that  alone  wasn’t  joy  enough,  there  was  a bag  of  candy  tucked  into 
each  pair  of  hands  as  the  father  left  them. 

“Oh,  Papa,”  cried  Hetty  Ria,  as  she  held  him  close  in  her  loving 
arms,  “did  the  angels  come  and  cure  you,  as  we  asked  ’em  to.  Did  they 
for  sure.  Papa?” 

“I  wouldn’t  dare  to  say  it  was  a ‘for  sure’  cure,  Hetty  Ria,”  replied 
the  father  with  a sob  in  his  voice,  “if  I had  to  do  it  all  alone,  but  with 
five  such  babies  as  I’ve  got  to  be  a-praying  and  a-helping  me,  I believe 
it’s  ‘for  sure’  this  time.” — Julia  F.  Deane  in  Union  Signal. 

AUNT  MARGARET’S  STORY. 

“Dearest  of  Aunties,  — Almost  as  soon  as  you  receive  this  letter 
I shall  be  with  you,  for  I am  coming  to  see  }'^ou  early  in  the  morning; 
but  all  the  same  I cannot  let  this  night  of  nights  go  by  without  dropping 
you  a line  to  say  that  I am  engaged  to  Percy  Durrant,  and  that  I am 
the  happiest  girl  in  the  world.  — With  fondest  love,  your  happy  niece. 
May.” 

A sweet-faced  lady  read  this  note  over  her  solitary  breakfast-table, 
and  as  she  did  so  a tender  smile  curved  her  lips. 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


73 


“Dear  child,”  she  murmured  to  herself,  “I  hope  she  will  be  very 
happy.  She  ought  to  be,  Percy  is  a good  fellow,”  and  then  her  eyes 
grew  sad  and  wistful  as  recollections  of  a time  in  the  days  of  long  ago 
filled  her  mind.  As  the  present  thus  faded  away  into  the  past,  and  she 
became  young  again,  many  pictures  rose  up  before  her  mind’s  eye,  scenes 
many  and  varied,  but  in  all  of  them  she  saw  by  her  side  the  same  tall 
young  fellow  who  whispered  words  of  love  in  her  ear,  and  who  said  that 
he  would  always  be  by  her  side  to  protect  her  through  life. 

“And  this  is  what  it  has  all  come  to,”  she  murmured  to  herself,  “a 
lonely  old  age  for  me.  Ah ! but  for  my  folly  it  might  have  been  very 
different.  I must  see  that  May  does  not  make  the  same  mistake.” 

A few  minutes  later  and  a bright,  pretty  girl  was  hugging  and 
kissing  her. 

“Dear  Auntie,”  she  said,  “I  had  to  come  and  see  you  early.  You 
got  my  letter,  I suppose !” 

“Yes,  dear,  I have  had  it  to  keep  me  company  over  my  breakfast. 
Let  me  look  at  you.  Yes,  you  look  happy;  your  face  speaks  for  itself. 
Now,  I want  a serious  talk  with  you,  and  you’ll  forgive  an  old  woman ; 
won’t  you,  if  she  speaks  a word  of  warning  to  you !” 

“If  you  mean  yourself.  I’ll  let  you  say  anything  you  like,”  said  May, 
impulsively ; “but  as  for  your  being  old  — why ! though  your  hair  is  white, 
you  seem  very  young  to  me,  and  your  heart  is  as  young  as  anyone’s,  I 
know.  See ! I’ll  sit  here  on  this  little  stool  and  lean  my  head  on  your 
knee,  and  you  shall  say  just  what  you  like  to  me.  There ! this  will  do 
nicely.  Now  start  away,  auntie.” 

Silence  reigned  for  a few  minutes,  and  then  Miss  Feveril  said,  “I 
can  best  say  what  I want  to  say  by  first  asking  you  a question.  Are  you 
going  to  ask  Percy  to  become  a total  abstainer?” 

The  bright,  pretty  face  clouded,  and  a look  of  indecision  passed 
over  it. 

“I  do  not  know,  auntie,”  was  the  reply.  “It  certainly  had  crossed 
my  mind  that  my  temperance  friends  might  possibly  think  that  — as  a 
teetotaler  — I ought  to  try  to  get  Percy  to  join  our  ranks,  now  that  I’m 
engaged  to  hhn ; but  I haven’t  decided  yet  that  I will  do  so.  You  see, 
Percy  is  all  but  a teetotaler,  and  I do  not  feel  any  fear  that  he  could 
ever  be  led  away  by  drink,  and  it  would  look  very  much  as  if  I could 
not  trust  him  if  I asked  him  to  become  an  out-and-out  abstainer.  Don’t 
you  think  so,  auntie?  What  is  your  opinion?” 


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STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


Miss  Feveril  did  not  reply  for  a few  minutes;  then  she  said,  “I  can 


“I  had  to  come  and  see  you  early.” 


almost  imagine  that  the  years  have  rolled  backwards,  and  that  I am 
listening  to  my  own  words  as  I spoke  them  to  my  friend,  when  she  asked 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


75 


me  the  question  I have  just  asked'  you.  Have  you  ever  wondered  why 
I am  a lonely  old  maid?  Listen,  and  I will  tell  you  the  romance  of  my 
life,  and  you  shall  learn  how  I wrecked  my  own  happiness. 

“I  was  about  your  own  age.  May,  when  I became  engaged  to  Reg 
Hardy.  I was  very  like  what  you  are  now  — bright  and  merry,  with  a 
light-hearted  manner,  and  capacity  for  enjoyment. 

In  the  early  part  of  my  engagement  to  Reg  I was  perfectly  happy. 
Life  seemed  beautiful  and  promising,  and  I felt  that  I had  nothing  else 
to  wish  for. 

When  I had  been  engaged  a few  weeks,  my  old  friend,  Nell  Trevor, 
came  to  stay  with  me.  She,  also,  was  engaged  to  be  married,  and  her 
fiancee.  Will  Denvers,  lived  in  our  town,  so  I thought  that  she  and  I, 
with  Will  and  Reg,  would  be  able  to  have  some  nice  outings  together. 

“Almost  the  first  night  after  her  arrival  she  said  to  me,  Ts  Reg  a 
teetotaler,  Margaret?’ 

“‘No,’  I replied;  ‘but  he  is  next  door  to  one,..so  it  doesn’t  matter.’ 

“‘Oh!  how  can  you  say  that,  Meg!”  she  exclaimed,  reproachfully, 
‘It  matters  a great  deal,  but  you  are  going  to  ask  him  to  become  one 
how,  aren’t  you  ?” 

“ ‘No,  indeed;  I’m  not,  Nell !”  I replied.  ‘If  I thought  that  there  was 
any  fear  of  drink  getting  the  mastery  over  him  I most  certainly  would, 
but  as  it  is,  knowing  that  he  only  takes  a glass  very  seldom,  and  then 
only  just  to  be  sociable  when  he  is  in  the  company  of  those  who  take 
wine,  I shall  not  ask  him  any  such  thing.  Why,’  I continued,  ‘if  I did  so 
it  would  look  as  if  I were  afraid  of  his  becoming  a drunkard,  and  as  if  I 
had  no  faith  in  his  power  over  himself.’ 

“ ‘But,  Meg,’  Nell  interrupted,  ‘as  a teetotaler  yourself,  surely  you 
would  wish  the  man  you  marry  to  be  one,  too.’ 

“‘I  don’t  see  why  that  should  matter  at  all,’  I said  quickly;  ‘I  am 
a teetotaler  myself,  because  I have  been  brought  up  as  one,  but  I see  no 
harm  in  anyone  taking  a glass  of  wine  occasionally  if  he  likes  to  do  so, 
and  I must  confess  that  I see  no  reason  why  anyone  should  hurl 
anathemas  at  moderate  drinkers.  There  is  no  harm  in  what  they  do ; 
it  is  only  those  who  drink  to  excess  who  are  at  fault.’ 

“Nell  was  very  quiet  for  a few  minutes  after  I had  spoken  thus,  and 
then  she  said  in  a very  low  tone,  ‘I  cannot  tell  you  how  grieved  I am, 
Meg,  to  hear  you  speak  thus.  I never  thought  you  held  such  opinions.’ 

“ ‘Oh !’  I said,  impatiently,  ‘I  suppose  you  are  like  all  other  enthu- 


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siastic  temperance  advocates ; you  think  that  your  way  is  the  only  right 
way.’ 

“Nell  broke  in  here,  saying,  T certainly  do  think,  Meg,  that  our  way 
— the  total  abstinence  way  — is  the  only  safe  way.  Do  you  suppose  that 
any  of  the  drunkards  we  see  ip  our  midst  are  drunkards  from  choice? 
No,  they  are  drunkards  because  they  began  by  being  moderate  drinkers, 
and  then  the  love  of  drink  grew  on  them  to  such  an  extent  that  they  were 
unable  to  stop  at  moderation,  and  are  now  slaves  to  their  appetite  for 
drink.’ 

“ ‘And  do  you  mean  to  say,’  I interrupted,  angrily,  ‘that  you  think 
Reg  is  likely  to  become  a drunkard?’ 

“‘You  know  I do  not  mean  that,  Meg,’  replied  Nell,  quietly.  ‘I 
merely  state  what  is  a fact  — that  the  only  safe  and  sure  way  of  avoiding 
the  evil  consequences  of  drink  is  to  have  nothing  at  all  to  do  with  it. 
And  then  you  must  know  that  ‘taking  a glass  for  company’s  sake,’  as 
you  express  it,  is  often  the  cause  of  many  young  fellows  getting  into 
undesirable  company,  which  they  would  otherwise  have  been  saved  from, 
and  which  leads,  in  many  cases,  to  gambling  and  other  vices.  Oh ! Meg 
dear,’  my  friend  continued,  ‘do  you  not  see  how  much  better  it  is  to 
be  out-and-out  a teetotaler  and  have  nothing  to  do  with  an  evil  which 
<s  the  greatest  curse  of  our  country?’ 

“But  to  all  this  talk  I was  deaf.  I was  obstinate,  and  would  not 
be  convinced;  and  Nell,  seeing  that  it  was  no  use  talking  to  me,  did  not 
mention  the  subject  again. 

“The  months  went  by,  and  I began  to  notice  a change  in  Reg. 
slight  at  first,  but  becoming  more  and  more  noticeable  as  time  went  on. 
He  seemed  unsettled,  and  had  not  the  same  amount  of  time  to  spend 
with  me  that  he  used  to  have.  It  frequently  happened  that  if  friends 
asked  us  to  spend  the  evening  with  them,  he  would  plead  another  engage- 
ment. ‘It’s  so  slow  up  there,  Meg,’  he  used  to  say;  and  when  I looked 
hurt,  he  added,  ‘It’s  not  as  if  we  were  going  to  have  the  evening  to  our- 
selves ; it  would  be  different  then.  Let  me  keep  my  engagement  to-night, 
and  be  free  for  a nice,  cosy  time  by  ourselves  to-morrow.’ 

“These  things  troubled  me,  for  Reg  had  not  hitherto  found  the 
evenings  slow  which  we  had  spent  together  with  friends,  and  I asked 
myself  what  the  change  meant. 

“But  by-and-by  a great  fear  took  possession  of  me,  for  one  day  I 
overheard  two  people  talking,  and  saying  that  Reg  Hardy  would  come 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


77 


to  no  good  end  if  he  persisted  in  keeping  company  with  his  present 
friends. 

“‘What  can  it  all  mean?’  I asked  myself,  and  I felt  sick  and  faint. 

“That  evening  Reg  came  to  see  me.  He  looked  tired  and  out  of 
sorts.  I asked  him  if  he  was  not  well.  ‘Oh,  I’m  all  right !’  he  said,  ‘but 
I was  up  late  last  night,  and  am  a bit  fagged  out.  Linden  had  a little 
party  at  his  rooms  yesterday,  that’s  the  reason.’ 

“ ‘Linden,’  I repeated,  ‘who  is  he?  Is  he  that  dark  man  I have  seen 
you  with  several  times  lately?  I don’t  like  him,  Reg;  I wish  you’d 
give  him  up.  I’m  sure  he  is  not  a nice  friend  for  you.  You’re  never  with 
Will  Denvers  now,  and  it  used  to  be  so  nice  that  you  were  chummy  with 
him,  because  of  Nell  and  me.’ 

“Reg  looked  impatient.  ‘Oh!  don’t  worry  your  head,  Meg,’  he  said, 
‘Linden  is  a jolly  sort.  As  for  Denvers,  I used  to  think  he  was  right 
enough,  but  I think  he  is  awfully  slow;  there’s  no  go  in  him.’ 

“‘Does  he  know  Mr.  Linden?’  I inquired. 

“Reg  laughed.  ‘No,  indeed ; he’s  not  Linden’s  sort.  Why,  I met 
Linden  first  at  a little  affair  at  Patterson’s  rooms,  and  it’s  no  use  asking 
Denvers  to  that  sort  of  thing,  as  he  is  a teetotaler.  By  the  way,  Meg,’  he 
went  on,  ‘do  you  know,  I used  to  think  when  we  were  first  engaged  that 
you’d  want  me  to  turn  teetotal,  and  upon  my  word,  I believe  if  you  had 
asked  me  then,  I should  have  done  so.  I’m  sure  I’m  much  obliged  to 
you  for  not  having  made  the  request,  for  I should  never  have  got  in  with 
Linden  if  I had  been  a teetotaler,  and  should  have  missed  some  jolly 
times.’ 

“When  Reg  said  this  I felt  sick  at  heart,  and  all  that  Nell  had  said 
to  me  came  back  with  added  force. 

“I  must  tell  you  the  events  of  the  next  few  months  as  quickly  as 
possible,  for  even  now  it  hurts  me  to  think  of  them.  Reg  spent  more 
and  more  of  his  time  with  Mr.  Linden.  This  man  seemed  to  have 
gained  complete  ascendancy  over  him,  and  from  taking  a glass  ‘just  for 
company’s  sake,’  Reg  became  really  fond  of  drink.  At  last  the  crash 
came.  The  position  which  he  held  in  business  was  a confidential  one, 
and  he  always  had  charge  of  the  keys  of  certain  cash  drawers,  etc.  One 
morning  a large  sum  of  money  was  missing,  and  suspicion  fell  on  Reg, 
for  his  bunch  of  keys  was  found  about  the  place.  He  protested  his 
innocence,  and  said  that  he  had  been  in  the  company  of  Mr.  Linden  all 
the  evening  until  he  returned  home.  When,  however,  Mr.  Linden  was 


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STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


sent  for,  so  that  he  might  confirm  Reg’s  statement,  no  trace  of  him 
could  be  found,  and  the  opinion  was  formed  that  while  Reg  had  been 
under  the  influence  of  drink  on  the  previous  evening,  Mr.  Linden  had 
taken  the  keys  from  his  pocket  and  stolen  the  money.  At  any  rate, 
though  nothing  could  be  proved  against  Reg  in  court,  his  character  was 
gone,  and  his  position  was  lost  to  him.  He  grew  desperate,  and  one 
dreadful  day  took  his  own  life. 

“I  cannot  tell  you  what  I suffered  all  that  terrible  time.  May,  dear, 
the  agony  of  it  was  made  the  more  intense  because  I felt  that  if  only 
I had  taken  Nell’s  advice  the  misery  might  have  been  averted. 

“Now  you  know  why  I put  the  question  to  you : ‘Are  you  going  to 
ask  Percy  to  become  a teetotaler?’  You  know  what  I would  have 
you  do.” 

Next  morning  Miss  Feveril  received  another  note.  She  opened  it, 
and  read ; 

“Dearest  Auntie : I asked  Percy  the  question  you  advised  me  to 
ask  him,  and  what  do  you  think  he  said?  That  he  was  only  waiting 
for  me  to  ask  him  to  become  a teetotaler  before  promising  to  do  so, 
and  that  he  would  have  been  disappointed  in  me  if  I had  not  asked 
him.  Thank  you  so  much  for  having  helped  me  in  this  way.  I shall 
always  feel  that  I owe  much  of  my  happiness  to  you,  and  I will  do  all 
1 can  to  show  you  how  much  I value  your  advice.  Your  loving  niece. 

May.” 

Miss  Feveril’s  smile  was  very  tender  and  sweet  as  she  folded  up 
this  letter,  but  her  eyes  were  filled  with  a wistful  longing,  and  the  hand 
that  put  the  note  back  into  its  envelop  trembled  a little. — Alice  Parting- 
ton in  London  S.  S.  Times. 

TOM  M’HARDY’S  BATTLEMENTS. 

“Scotty,”  said  Tom  M’Hardy’s  chum  and  fellow-salesman  behind 
the  counter  of  one  of  New  York’s  mammoth  dry-goods  stores,  “Scotty, 
a dumb  wife  should  be  an  unspeakable  blessing.  I should  say  I am 
‘stung’ ; just  look  at  the  goods  I have  been  showing  her,  and  all  I have 
for  my  trouble  is  talk.”  And  the  disgusted  salesman  began  to  fold  up 
the  pieces  of  goods  he  had  been  trying  to  sell  and  to  replace  them  on 
the  adjacent  shelves,  while  the  lady,  who  had  tried  his  patience  not  a 
little,  moved  to  another  part  of  the  store. 


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79 


“Guess  she’ll  wake  up  some  morning  to  find  her  jaw  dislocated.” 

“Why?”  asked  Tom  M’Hardy,  with  some  amusement. 

“From  talking  in  dry-goods  stores,  and  in  her  sleep;  but  I noticed 
that  you  did  not  fall  asleep.” 

“Sleep ! My  word  for  it,  Scotty,  the  chick  that  stays  here  must 
convince  the  women  that  this  is  the  season  of  the  year  when  they  can 
get  what  they  don’t  want  real  cheap.  If  we  fail  in  that  — look  out  for 
your  walking  papers.  Oh,  that  reminds  me,  Scotty 

“Yes,  madam,  the  very  latest.”  And  Tom’s  chum  was  once  more 
intent  in  selling  goods,  willing  to  wait  for  the  opportunity  of  unburden- 
ing his  mind  to  his  companion. 

Tom  M’Hardy  looked  the  picture  of  health  behind  the  counter.  Tall, 
well  built  in  body,  neatly  dressed  and  doing  business  at  last  in  a place 
where  he  felt  he  could  move  without  trampling  on  the  other  fellow’s 
toes,  convinced  that  now  or  never  ambition’s  debt  must  be  paid.  The 
youth  had  been  in  the  great  metropolis  of  the  western  world  for  a little 
more  than  a week.  Through  the  kind  offices  of  Scottish  friends  he  had 
secured  a position  as  a dry-goods  salesman.  Tom  was  not  without 
experience  in  this  line,  for  he  had  served  his  apprenticeship  in  his  father’s 
shop  in  Edinburgh;  but  the  young  draper  had  been  too  much  confined. 
His  father’s  shop  had  made  him  restless,  almost  beyond  reason,  so  that 
there  was  nothing  for  his  parents  to  do  but  tearfully  let  him  go  with 
their  blessing. 

“Tommy,”  said  the  father,  “jist  tak’  this  wi’  ye,  an’  if  ye  need  mair 
jist  write.  An’  mind  there’s  aye  a place  for  ye  in  my  shoppie,  as  there 
is  in  my  hert.  May  God  be  tae  ye,  Tommy,  what  the  Castle  Rock  was 
tae  oor  forebears  — a refuge  and  strength  in  time  o’  need.”  And  Tom 
M’Hardy  took  one  more  fond  look  toward  the  summit  of  the  rock. 
“Tom,  my  dear  bairn,  dinna  forget  yer  mither,  nor  yer  mither’s  God,” 
was  all  his  mother  could  say  in  parting. 

These  words  of  his  parents  and  parting  scenes  would  come  to  his 
mind  when  a lull  occurred  in  the  store,  which  was  not  very  often. 
Indeed,  he  had  soon  discovered  that,  to  keep  up  with  the  procession, 
as  his  busy  life  was  called,  the  quiet  ways  of  doing  business  in  his 
father’s  shop  had  to  be  dispensedi  with.  From  morning  until  night  it 
was  like  a busy  bee-hive  in  the  store.  People  coming  and  going,  hustle 
and  bustle,  and  the  new  experience  was  not  unpleasing  to  the  youth, 
at  least  for  a time.  But,  like  a veneer,  the  freshness  wore  off  and  he 


80 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


longed  for  a brief  respite  from  the  turmoil  of  the  daily  routine. 

“Scotty,  as  I was  going  to  say  before  that  angel  of  a woman  came 
along,”  Tom’s  chum  said,  still  looking  in  the  direction  in  which  the  lady 
was  moving,  who  had  made  a splendid  purchase,  “to-morrow  is  Sunday 
— where  will  it  be?” 

“To  church  for  me/’  replied  Tom,  but  not  with  firm  resolve. 

“My  good  Saint  Thomas,”  Jim  Burnham  said  with  a sneer,  “you’ll 
soon  find  out  that  only  old  women  and  children  attend  church  in  this 
country.” 

“Do  you  often  go  yourself?”  Tom  inquired. 

“No;  gave  it  up  long  ago.” 

“Then  how  do  you  know?” 

“Look  here,  Scotty,  I’ll  toss  you  for  church  or  Coney.” 

“Heads,  it’s  Coney ; tails,  it’s  church,’*  and  he  sent  a quarter  spinning 
up  above  their  heads.  When  the  coin  fell  flat  on  a piece  of  goods  lying 
on  the  counter,  Jim  slapped  his  chum  on  the  shoulder  and  said,  “Head, 
it’s  Coney!” 

The  Sunday  dawned  beautiful  and  bright.  Hundreds  poured  out 
of  the  city  by  train  and  steamer.  Crowds  thronged  the  seaside  resort, 
and  Tom  M’Hardy  was  soon  lost  in  the  gay  vortex. 

“Tom,”  said  Burnham,  “let’s  have  a drink.” 

“I  don’t  drink,  Jim.” 

“Now,  look  here,  you  ‘innocent  abroad,’  just  step  inside  while  I 
discuss  a glass,  anyway.”  And  they  went  in  together. 

The  scene  was  revolting  enough  to  Tom,  not  accustomed  to  the 
place,  but  the  youth  had  not  enough  backbone  to  stand  his  ground  and 
say  “No.” 

“Have  a drink,  Tom;  just  one,”  he  urged. 

“Fresh,  is  he?”  asked  the  bartender.  “Well,  we  need  them  all.  We 
can  no  more  run  this  here  joint  without  new  ones  any  more  than  you 
can  run  a saw  mill  without  new  logs.” 

“And  if  we  drink  enough  we  will  have  as  much  life  in  us  as  the 
logs,”  thought  Tom,  but  without  courage  to  say  it. 

When  they  emerged  from  the  saloon,  Jim  said  in  his  flippant  style : 
“You  know  what  the  apostle  said  about  taking  a little  for  the  stomach’s 
sake?” 

“If  the  apostle’s  was  not  any  better  than  what  we  had  in  there,” 
replied  Tom,  “I’m  sorry  for  him.”  Still,  Tom  seemed  powerless  to  resist 


1 


THE  EASY  EOAE  AND  ITS  END 

It  begins  in  an  easy  way  with  a glass  of  wine,  and  leads  by  easy  stages 
always  down  hill,  until  shrieking,  struggling  and  blaspheming  down  they  go 
into  the  bottomless  pit,  suicides,  madmen  and  even  murderers.  Thousands  upon 
thousands  are  lost  every  year  through  the  curse  of  drink. 


‘ ‘ Don ’t  marry  a man  to  reform  him, 
To  God  and  your  own  self  be  true. 
Don’t  link  his  vice  to  your  virtue — 
You’ll  rue  it,  dear  girl,  if  j’ou  do.” 


— See  page  523. 


Stories  of  hell’s  commerce 


81 


the  treacherous  arts  of  sin,  guided  on  by  Jim  Burnham,  until,  although 
for  the  time  honied,  it  was  after  all  the  sting  of  sin.  Tom’s  downfall 
was  gradual  but  sure.  There  followed  the  money  stringency  and  hard 
times.  They  could  do  without  many  clerks  in  the  store,  and  for  more 
reasons  than  one,  Tom  M’Hardy  was,  with  many  others,  out  of  employ- 
ment. Of  late  Tom  had  not  been  the  bright,  swift  salesman  his  beginning 
had  promised.  With  mind  infected,  feeling  the  cruel  pangs  of  remorse 
for  his  manner  of  living,  poor  Tom  M’Hardy  was  left  alone  face  to  face 
with  the  listless  life,  until  he  wished  himself  dead.  His  mother’s  parting 
words  burned  into  his  very  soul,  now  that  he  had  time  to  think  of  them ; 
“Dinna  forget  yer  mither,  nor  yer  mither’s  God.”  That  was  just  exactly 
what  he  had  done,  and  his  soul  cried  out,  as  from  within  a dark  dungeon, 
for  relief.  What  could' he  do,  and  where  could  he  go? 

It  was  Sunday  evening  and  the  hour  for  evening  worship.  Walking 
along  West  Fifty-seventh  alone  he  followed,  almost  unconsciously,  the 
people  who  were  reverently  crowding  into  a church.  He  could  go  in  a 
church  now,  seeing  that  there  was  no  Jim  Burnham  to  sneer  him  out 
of  the  idea.  Taking  a seat  at  the  rear,  he  waited  for  the  service  to 
begin.  He  was  compelled  to  go  back  to  Edinburgh  in  thought  while 
he  thus  waited,  and  he  could  see  in  the  family  pew  his  aged  father  and 
mother  sitting  there.  The  coming  in  of  the  members  of  the  large  chorus 
disturbed  his  reverie.  The  music,  as  if  the  speech  of  angels,  reached  his 
heart.  It  was  the  first  happy,  contented  moment  he  was  experiencing  for 
many  a day,  as  the  service,  of  reverent  worship  went  on  its  way,  in  God’s 
beautiful  sanctuary.  As  the  preacher  "unfolded  his  theme,  “The  Christian 
Safeguards,”  Tom  M’Hardy  felt  that  every  word  was  spoken  for  him, 
as  if  he  composed  the  entire  congregation.  The  Spirit  of  God  touched 
his  heart  and  gripped  it  as  with  hooks  of  steel  and  would  not  let  him  go. 
The  preacher  was  eloquent  in  the  true  sense  of  the  word,  ever  keeping 
himself  in  the  focus  of  Christ’s  personal  life  and  love,  and  under  the 
zenith  light  of  His  cross. 

Natural,  suggestive  and  helpful  his  theme  was  developed,  in  some 
such  way  as  the  rose  is  unfolded  from  the  bud.  The  Christian  Sabbath, 
family  prayer  and  the  Bible  were  mentioned  as  the  safeguards  of  the 
Christian,  and  Tom  M’Hardy  sat  condemned,  knowing  full  well  how 
much  he  had  neglected  these  since  coming  to  America.  Moreover,  he 
reflected,  Scotland’s  best  was  brought  about  by  these  same  safeguards. 
But  it  was  not  until  the  personal  and  climatic  appeal  was  made  that 


82 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


proved  to  be  the  turning  point  in  Tom  M’Hardy’s  career.  “Put  up  the 
battlement  now,”  exclaimed  the  preacher  with  tremendous  power  and 


“Tom  M’Hardy  felt  that  every  word  was  spoken  for  him.” 

holy  passion,  “because,  if  not  now  you  may  never  do  it;  time  hastens, 
youth  is  going,  age  comes,  death  approaches.  Oh,  men  and  women ! 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


83 


come  to  the  Lord  Jesus  this  day,  I beseech  you;  and  having  done  this, 
we  know  that  if  the  balustrades  of  our  earthly  house  of  this  tabernacle 
were  dissolved,  we  have  a building  of  God,  a house  not  made  with  hands, 
eternal  in  the  heavens.” 

The  sermon  had  come  to  a close,  but  not  its  influence,  which  would 
go  on  forever.  The  closing  hymn  was  sung  and  sweet  benediction  given, 
but  Tom  M’Hardy  was  quite  oblivious  to  either,  as  with  bended  head 
and  heart  he  had  come  to  the  turn  in  the  way.  Amidst  intense  silence 
he  put  up  the  battlements  of  the  soul,  and  there  was  rejoicing  in  the 
presence  of  the  angels  in  Heaven.  Looking  up  now,  he  saw  the  people 
retire  from  the  sacred  building  with  peace  written  on  their  faces.  The 
preacher  had  come  down  from  the  sacred  desk  and  was  speaking  the 
kindly  word  to  those  near  by. 

“Til  go  and  speak  to  him  — he  looks  so  kind,”  said  Tom  to  himself. 
“He  looks  so  kindd’  Could  there' be  a higher  compliment?  The  face 
of  the  minister  was  a cordial  invitation  to  come  to  him  and  confide  and 
get  help.  And  Tom’s  opportunity  came.  In  the  quiet  of  the  minister’s 
study  Tom  unfolded  his  life  and  heart  and  was  prepared  to  accept  the 
proffered  advice. 

“Your  father  wishes  you  to  return?” 

“Yes,”  responded  the  youth  quietly. 

“Then  why  not?  Do  you  need  any  money?” 

“I  have  enough  for  the  passage  home.  I’ll  go !” 

“Right,  my  boyl  Show  that,  while  some  modern  prodigals  come 
home  in  a cab  and  charge  up  expenses  to  the  family,  since  you  have  put 
up  the  battlements,  you  can  pay  your  own  way.  Good>-bye,  my  son, 
and  heaven  bless  you!”  And  Tom  M’Hardy  went  out  into  the  night 
a new  man. 

In  course  of  time  an  advertisement  appeared  in  the  Daily  Scotsman. 
It  read:  M’Hardy  & Son,  drapers.  Princess  street,  Edinburg. — Rev.  Wm. 
T.  Dorward,  in  Scottish  American. 

THE  SALOON  AT  THE  SETTLEMENT. 

Mrs.  Ephraim  Burdick  Relates  How  It  Got  a Foothold  and  How  the 
Community  Was  Rid  of  It. 

Burdick  settlement  has  never  bin  a growin’  place,  as  you  might  say, 
bein’  off  the  railroad.  It  is  situated  in  New  Berlin  township,  Greenville 


84 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


County,  which  is  a prosp’rous  farmin’  district,  specially  in  the  line  of 
dairyin’. 

Yet,  as  I sed,  we  never  seemed  to  have  any  special  boom  to  make 
us  grow. 

Of  course,  our  church  prospered  and  we  had  our  seasons  of  spiritual 
refreshin’. 

We  had  a fine,  new,  brick  schoolhouse,  with  two  rooms,  and  paid 
first-class  wages  to  our  teachers.  Three  years  ago,  she  that  was  Cornelia 
Simms,  old  Squire  Simms’  daughter,  who  married  a wealthy  man  in 
Buffalo,  sent  us  a library  of  five  hundred  volumes. 

“But  it  is  a dead  town.  Nothin’  a-doin’,”  sed  young  Ned  Burdick 
and  Luther  Sprague  every  time  I saw  them.  “There  ought  to  be  a saloon 
at  The  Corners,  and  it  would  pick  up  a little,”  sed  Luther,  winkin’  slyly 
at  Ned.  “Don’t  you  think  it  would  improve  business.  Aunt  Philena?” 

“Some  kinds  of  business,  yes,”  sez  I. 

Well,  two  unexpected  things  happened. 

The  fishin’  has  grown  to  be  uncommon  good  over  to  Si  Sprague’s 
pond,  now  known  as  Echo  Lake,  nestled  down  among  the  hills  and  just 
below  The  Ledges,  which  is,  if  I do  say  it,  a very  picturesque  spot.  Some 
fellows  from  Greenville  put  up  a cottage  there  two  years  ago.  Si  leased 
them  the  ground  for  ninety-nine  years.  It  brought  a lot  of  people  from 
Greenville  and  Si  declared  he  would  put  up  a hotel,  and  sure  enough, 
it  did  prove  a success.  He  got  some  city  boarders  and  then  he  converted 
the  sulphur  spring  on  the  hillside,  just  above,  in  a sort  of  sanitarium, 
claimin’  it  had  wonderful  medicinal  qualities. 

Well,  it  was  the  talk  of  the  town.  Si’s  folks  alus  was  a little 
worldly,  and  they  had  their  dance  hall  and  drawed  in  lots  of  young  folks. 

Next  thing  that  happened  to  boom  the  town  was  a big  cannin’ 
factory  that  was  put  up  right  across  the  road  from  Phlambert’s  house. 

You  see,  Carson  Sloan  fell  heir  to  the  old  Meeker  farm.  He  had 
been  in  the  cannin’  business  and  so  he  came  and  built  a large  factory 
and  converted  the  fifty  acres  of  good  creek  bottomland  into  a garden,  and 
advertised  he  would  buy  all  the  stuff  our  townspeople  could  raise  besides. 
He  employed  about  a hundred  people  in  the  garden  and  factory  and  that 
made  work  for  everyone  around  who  needed  it,  and  he  had  to  import 
several  hands.  They  had  to  have  houses  to  live  in,  or  boardin’  places. 
That  made  work  for  carpenters,  a sale  for  lumber,  and  a chance  to  keep 
boarders  for  our  women  folks. 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


85 


Sloan  was  a great  man  at  the  settlement.  Everybody  looked  up 
to  him.  He  was  a great  politician  and  manager.  He  attended  church 
and  paid  well.  Why,  he  often  dropped  a dollar  and  sometimes  a-“V”  in 
the  plate ! He  came  to  all  the  socials  at  the  church  and  et  dish  after  dish 
of  ice  cream  at  ten  cents  a dish. 

I went  up  to  the  city  to  stay  with  Philander  . a few  weeks  in  case  of 
sickness,  and  when  I got  back,  what  do  you  think  they’d  done?  Well, 
that  old  cheese  factory  beyond  the  cannin’  factory,  not  forty  yards  from 
Phlambert’s,  had  been  converted  into  a saloon,  and  Clem  Miller  had 
taken  out  the  first  license  issued  in  New  Berlin  township  in  twenty-five 
years. 

I sot  down  in  my  spare  room,  with  my  bonnet  still  on,  and  covered 
my  face  with  my  hands  and  groaned,  as  it  were,  with  mortal  agony. 

Finally,  raisin’  my  head,  I cried,  “Ephraim  Burdick ! how  did  it 
happen  ? 

“Well,  mother,”  sez  he,  “nobody  hardly  knows.  You  see,  we  have 
got  so  much  goin’  on  in  our  town  now,  there  seemed  to  be  a demand 
for  it.  If  there  is  a saloon  here,  it  will  draw  folks  into  town,  instead  of 
their  runnin’  off  to  London  or  Greenville  to  spend  their  money.  It  puts 
money  into  circulation  in  our  town.” 

“It  puts  money  into  a different  set  of  hands,  to  be  sure.  It  puts 
money  ito  Clem  Miller’s  hands  and  it  passes  from  him  to  the  whole- 
sale dealers,  to  be  sure,  but  where  is  the  good  in  that?” 

“Well,  you  see,  they  arger,”  sez  Ephraim,  “that  the  people  will 
come  to  town,  attracted'  by  the  saloon,  and  leave  more  or  less  money 
in  the  stores  and  business  places.  Otherwise,  they  would  go  to  some 
other  town.” 

“Do  you  suppose,”  sez  I,  “that  the  amount  they  will  spend  in 
business  places  will  be  as  much  as  our  own  folks  round  the  settlement 
would  waste  in  the  saloon?  Why,  Ephraim  Burdick!  you  ought  to  be 
on  your  knees  prayin’  that  retribution  would  fall  on  this  accursed 
business.” 

Phoebe  Esther  was  terribly  wrought  up.  She  did  not  say  much, 
but  her  face  was  set  in  that  determined  way  and  you  know  she  would 
never  give  up. 

“Ain’t  it  terrible  ?”  I sez,  and  it  -was  all  I could  say. 

“It  is  the  same  old  accursed  business,”  sez  Phoebe  Esther,  “that  has 
blighted  and  blasted  homes  and  human  lives,  that  has  coiled  itself  around 


86 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


the  posts  and  pillars  of  our  legislative  halls  and  bought  the  honor  and 
manhood  of  our  so-called  statesmen,  till  purity  and  honesty  and  Christian 
manhood  can  no  longer  vie  with  its  mighty  political  power.  Yes,  Mother 
Burdick,  it  is  terrible,  but  no  more  terrible  because  it  has  settled  itself 
on  a little  spot  in  our  town.  But  it  shall  not  stay ! God  helping  me.” 


From  Phoebe  Esther’s  kitchen  window  she  could  see  the  saloon  and 
she  took  notice  who  went  in,  and  many  a boy  not  of  age  she  seen  cross 
the  threshold  in  the  first  few  weeks. 

Well,  she  called  the  mothers  together  and  they  went  in  a body  and 
forbid  Clem  Miller  a-sellin’  to  their  boys.  He  laughed  and  sed,  “If  you 
can’t  govern  your  boys  and  keep  them  at  home,  you  needn’t  expect  me  to 
do  it  for  you.” 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


87 


Elnath?n,  Phoebe  Esther’s  second  son,  who  is  now  a lad  of  sixteen, 
alius  was  different  than  the  rest  of  the  children,  and  since  the  cigaret 
episode  I told  you  about  one  time,  his  parents  have  watched  him  pretty 
closely.  Someone  sed  he  was  hangin’  around  Miller’s  a good  deal,  gettin’ 
dismissed  from  school  at  half  past  two  in  the  afternoon  on  the  plea  of 
helpin’  his  pa. 

So  Phoebe  Esther  watched,  and  about  that  time  she  and  her  daugh- 
ter Mandy  went  over  and  Mandy  went  to  the  front  door  and  Phoebe 
Esther  to  the  back  door.  As  Mandy  opened  the  front  door  Elnathan 
seen  her  and  made  a dive  for  the  back  door  and  run  right  into  his 
mother’s  arms.  She  took  him  by  the  arm  and  marshaled  him  back,  and 
facin’  Clem  Miller,  she  sed; 

“Now,  Elnathan,  I want  you  to  tell  me  how  you  got  to  cornin’  in 
here.  Did  Mr.  Miller  invite  you?” 

Elnathan  hung  his  head.  Phoebe  gave  him  a good  shake. 

“He  — he  — he  sed  if  Pd  come  in  here  every  afternoon  and  help, 
and  slip  out  after  my  folks  thought  I was  in  bed  an  hour  or  two,  he’d 
give  me  two  dollars  a week,”  stammered  Elnathan. 

“It’s  a lie,”  sed  Miller.  “He  struck  me  for  a job.” 

“Well,  you  told  Bill  Chapin  to  hunt  you  up  a boy,  anyhow,”  said 
Elnathan. 

“We’ll  go  home  now,”  said'  Phoebe  Esther. 

“Ha*!  before  Pd  be  bossed  round  by  my  old  woman,”  sneered  a fel- 
low at  a card  table. 

“Dry  up,”  said  Elnathan.  With  all  his  faults  he  respects  his  mother. 

“Don’t  you  think  the  boy  is  gettin’  too  old  to  be  dictated  to  about 
goin’  out?”  sed  Miller. 

“Mr.  Miller,”  said  Phoebe  Esther,  “I  don’t  believe  in  bringin’  up 
children  with  so  much  pains  and  care  and  just  at  the  time  when  they 
need  control  most,  lettin’  them  go  off  and  lettin’  them  get  an  idea  they 
are  too  big  to  mind.  Come  on,  Elnathan,”  and  they  went  home. 

Well,  of  course,  we  all  knowed  Clem  Miller  was  sellin’  to  minors 
right  along,  but  how  was  you  goin’  to  prove  it,  and  if  you  did,  how 
would  you  get  justice  done?  It  has  been  tried  over  and  over  again.  You 
have  read  it  in  your  temperance  stories ; you  have  heard  it  in  temperance 
lectures.  The  same  power  that  gives  a man  a saloon  protects  his  business. 

“So  it  won’t  be  any  use  to  go  through  all  that,”  sed  Phoebe  Esther, 
and  our  minister,  who  had  seen  it  all  tried  in  other  places,  sed  the  same. 


88 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


Phoebe  Esther  and  Phlambert  put  a watch  over  Elnathan  night  and 
day  and  exhorted  other  folks  to  do  the  same. 

“I’ll  lock  the  boy  up  till  he  is  of  age,  if  necessary,”  said  Phoebe 
Esther,  “before  he  shall  enter  a saloon  again.” 

How  about  the  moral  suasion?  She  gave  him  that  in  small  doses, 
you  may  be  sure ; but  this  was  a time  for  action. 

But  there  was  lots  of  folks  at  the  settlement  who  couldn’t  control 
their  boys ; and  women  who  were  in  mortal  fear  of  their  husbands.’’ 
drinkin’. 

What  could  be  done? 

A day  was  appointed  for  fastin’  and  prayer.  The  minister  gave  it 
out  in  church.  At  the  close  of  the  day  the  people  who  felt  the  burden 
of  the  matter  were  invited  to  meet  for  prayer  and  conference. 

Phoebe  Esther  seemed  to  be  the  rulin’  spirit  in  the  agitation  over 
the  settlement  saloon,  and  when  we  gathered  at  her  house  at  the  close 
of  our  day  of  fastin’  and  prayer,  she  spoke  with  an  earnestness  and  faith 
that  seemed  to  thrill  us  all. 

“We  must  not  let  this  terrible  business  go  on  here  in  our  midst,” 
sed  she.  “It’ll  be  easier  to  get  rid  of  it  now  than  after  it  has  obtained 
a footin’.  We  all  know  how  it  works  in  other  places;  we  are  members 
of  temperance  societies ; we  know  of  the  power  of  the  saloon ; we 
believe  in  moral  suasion ; we  have  tried  it,  but  it  has  not  kept  the  saloon 
away.  The  power  of  the  ballot  is  strong,  and  yet,  in  spite  of  that,  the 
saloon  is  here,  while  we  know  the  majority  of  the  people  who  elected 
the  excise  commissioners  didn’t  want  it.  If  we  vote  it  out,  we  must 
wait  till  next  spring.  God  only  knows  what  evil  may  be  accomplished 
before  then.  There  has  never  been  a human  power  found  stronger  than 
the  saloon.  We  have  little  to  hope  for,  humanly  speaking.  God  alone 
is  mightier  than  the  saloon.  Why  did  He  not  prevent  its  coming? 
Because  His  people  did  not  work  with  Him.  The  only  way  to  get  His 
strength  is  to  link  ourselves  with  Him.  Then  no  power  on  earth  can 
resist  His  power.” 

So,  with  that  feelin’  we  knelt  in  prayer.  Frank  Webb’s  folks, 
Cousin  Peleg,  who  was  really  waked  up  to  the  situation,  Ephraim  and 
I,  and  the  minister  and  his  wife,  and  Squire  Dodson,  and  some  of  his 
folks  were  present. 

How  Phoebe  Esther  prayed!  I never  felt  that  God  was  so  real 
or  near  before. 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


89 


And  Frank  Webb  made  a full  consecration  of  all  he  had,  if  God 
wanted  it,  to  bring  about  the  result.  He  sed: 

“Oh,  Lord,  take  every  cent  of  my  money,  if  need  be,  to  bring  about 
the  overthrow  of  this  business.” 

And  Squire  Dodson,  who  is  very  well  fixed,  sed,  “Amen ! and  mine 
too,  if  you  need  it.” 

At  last  we  rose  from  our  knees.  The  room  was  very  still.  Outside 
the  low  rumble  of  thunder  broke  the  quietness  and  an  occasional  flash 
of  lightnin’  lit  up  the  room,  though  half  an  hour  before  the  sky  was 
clear.  We  stood  and  sang: 

“Oh!  for  a faith  that  will  not  shrink. 

Though  pressed  by  every  foe; 

That  will  not  tremble  on  the  brink 
Of  any  earthly  woe.” 

Just  then  there  came  a blindin’  flash  of  lightnin’  and  a terrible  crash 
of  thunder,  but  we  sang  on.  The  rain  came  dashing  against  the  win- 
dows, and  a light,  not  from  any  flash  of  lightnin’,  lit  up  the  room.  We 
turned  to  the  window.  The  flames  were  shootin’  up  from  Milkr’s  saloon. 
Dark  objects  were  runnin’  to  and  fro.  Our  men  rushed  out  to  see  if 
anyone  was  hurt.  As  it  happened,  there  was  no  one  seriously  injured, 
althought  the  boy  that  lived  at  Sister  Blivens’  was  badly  shocked  and 
Cousin  Peleg’s  youngest  boy  was  somewhat  hurt.  There  was  a good 
stock  of  liquor  on  hand  and  the  buildin’  went  like  powder,  for  the  bolt 
of  lightnin’  run  right  into  the  cellar  where  the  supply  was  and  they 
never  saved  a drop.  “It  looks  like  it  was  a torch  of  God’s  own  lightnin,,” 
said  Aunt  Hannah  Jane  Bethel.  “Poor  Clem.  I hope  he  ainT  injured, 
though,  for  he  was  such  a dear  little  boy.  I took  care  of  him  for  six 
months  after  his  own  mother  died.’ 

Well,  thete  was  great  excitement  at  the  settlement  next  day.  We 
hoped  as  Clem  Miller  had  no  insurance,  he  wouldn’t  build  up  again. 
But  we  heard  that  Carson  Sloan  had  promised  to  back  him  and  he 
began  to  look  around  for  a place  to  open  up  temporarily.  There  was 
the  old  storeroom  belongin’  to  Rant  Gale.  Clem  went  and  made  him  an 
offer  for*  that  for  six  months.  We  heard  of  it  and  Frank  Webb  and 
Squire  Dodson  and  Cousin  Peleg  and  Milt  Lakin  went  to  see  him.  They 
told  him  it  would  be  a sin  to  rent  it  for  that  purpose  and  against  the 
rules  of  the  church.  But  Rant  is  in  a backslidin’  state  anyway,  and  he 
argered  that  the  room  was  standin’  idle  and  no  one  else  would  pay  like  a 


90 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


saloonkeeper  would,  and,  of  course,  there  wouldn’t  be  likely  to  be  an- 
other store  start  up  in  the  settlement. 

Finally  Squire  Dodson  sed,  “You  may  tell  Miller  you  have  rented 
the  building  for  $2.00  a month  more  than  he  offered.” 

“What  do  you  mean?”  said  Rant. 

“I  mean  I will  lease  it  for  a year  at  them  figgers  and  fix  up  the 
writin’s  before  we  leave  the  house  today.”  So  they  did  it,  and  Milt 
Lakin,  who  had  just  been  appointed  postmaster,  moved  his  office  into 
the  front  part  of  the  room,  and  they  parted  off  the  rear  end  with  screens 
and  fixed  it  up  pretty  as  a parlor  and  had  the  new  library  in  there  and 
some  little  tables  for  games.  Then  Milt’s  daughter  had  a little  bakery 
store  in  front  with  candy  and  bread  and  cakes  to  sell.  Squire  Dodson’s 
cripple  son  tended  the  library  and  it  was  all  agoin’  inside  of  a week. 

“Well,  we  knew  Miller  had  lost  a sight  of  money;  he  had  his  license 
all  paid  for  and  no  way  to  make  it  up  so  quick  as  in  the  saloon  business. 
So  we  didn’t  expect  we  had  downed  him.  Still  folks  was  afraid  to  rent 
to  him  for  fear  something  would  happen  to  their  buildin’s. 

Finally,  we  heard  he  had  hired  a part  of  Jim  Ashcraft’s  new  barn, 
till  he  could  put  up  a buildin’  of  his  own.  He  didn’t  want  to  use 
the  old  site,  bein’  it  was  so  near  Phoebe  Esther’s. 

Well,  we  had  prayed  and  committed  the  matter  to  God,  but  we  ex- 
pected to  work  as  He  led  and  to  watch  and  pray,  and  we  certainly- 
watched. 

After  all,  it  came  about  in  such  a quiet  way,  God  usin’  one  of  His 
humblest  instruments  to  work  out  His  will. 

Aunt  Hannah  Jane  Bethel  somehow  never  gets  on  the  defensive 
side  in  such  a decided  way  that  every  lady  don’t  claim  her  as  a friend. 
She  ain’t  got  much  active  fight  in  her,  yet  she  is  as  firm  as  the  everlastin’ 
hills.  She  was  born  a Quaker.  She  went  over  to  stay  to  Clem  IMiller’s 
a few  days.  Mis’  Miller  not  bein’  well.  I got  the  partic’lars  from  Mis’ 
Miller,  who  overheard  the  conversation  from  her  bedroom.  Clem  came 
in  at  night  just  about  bedtime  and  set  down  by  the  kitchen  stove,  where 
Aunt  Hannah  Jane  set  mendin’  his  socks.  They  got  to  talkin’  about  the 
old  times  and  Clem’s  mother.  Aunt  Hannah  Jane  sez : 

“A  sweeter,  kinder  woman  never  lived.  Do  you  mind,  Clem,  that 
night  after  the  funeral,  when  you  set  in  my  lap  with  your  little  curly 
head  on  my  shoulder,  and  I told  you  of  the  beautiful  country  where  she 
had  gone?” 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


91 


Aunt  Hannah  Jane  hitched  her  chair  up  a little  cluster  and  laid  her 
hand  on  Clem’s  knee.  “And  you  sed,  T tell  you,  I’m  goin’  to  be  good  all 
my  life,  so’s  I can  go  there  when  I die.” 

Clem’s  voice  trembled.  “I  never  cease  to  miss  her.  Aunt  Hannah 
Jane.  I never  shall  get  that  lonesome  feelin’  out  of  my  heart.” 

“Till  we  meet  her  over  there  and  are  all  together  again,  dear,”  sed 
Aunt  Hannah  Jane,  gently. 


“Well,  I know  folks  think  I’m  bad,  but  a fellow’s  got  to  live,  some- 
way.” 

“Yes,”  sez  Aunt  Hannah  Jane.  “Didn’t  the  farm  pay  pretty  well?” 
“Yes,  but  it’s  a dog’s  life,  though  to  be  sure,  folks  wan’t  howling 
round  as  they  do  now.” 

“You  lost  a sight  of  money  in  the  fire,  Clem.” 

“Yes;  but  Sloan  will  advance  money  when  I set  up  again.” 

“What  security  will  he  ask?” 

“Oh,  a mortgage  on  the  farm,  but  I can  soon  clear  it  off.” 


92 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


“1  remember  how  glad  you  were  when  you  got  it  clear  before.  Why 
doa’t  you  just  let  it  go  this  time?  You  see,  if  the  curse  of  God  is  on  the 
business,  and  people  are  against  it  here  it  may  not  succeed,  and  then 
you  might  lose  the  farm.” 

“But  I’ve  paid  for  my  license  and  it’s  good  for  a year.” 

‘T  never  see  a license,”  said  Aunt  Hannah  Jane.  “I  wish  you  would 
show  it  to  me.” 

“Clem  brought  it  along.  Aunt  Hannah  looked  it  over  carefully  and 
inquired  the  price.  Then  she  took  a roll  of  bills  from  her  pocket,  and 
spreading  them  on  her  knee,  sed : 

“Now,  Clem,  I have  a little  money  here  I’ve  saved  to  put  into  some 
good  work.  Sell  me  the  license.  Of  course  I can’t  do  business  on  it 
without  some  legal  arrangements,  but  I want  to  pay  you  for  it.  You 
have  lost  heavily  in  the  fire,  but  this  will  help  a little.” 

I don’t  know  how  it  came  about,  but  time  run  on  and  the  saloon 
didn’t  open  up.  And  after  our  folks  saw  it  was  not  likely  to,  Phlambert 
and  Frank  Webb  went  to  Clem  with  a purse  of  money  they  had  made  up 
for  him  to  help  lift  the  mortgage  he’d  put  on  his  stock  and  team  to  help 
raise  the  money  to  start  the  saloon,  and  he  is  back  in  church  agnin  after 
bein’  out  for  years. 

The  other  day  Aunt  Hannah  Jane  took  out  a little  box,  and  opening 
it,  she  unfolded  a piece  of  p>aper,  sayin’,  “I  don’t  mind  showin’  you  this, 
if  you  don’t  say  anything.  Sister  Burdick.  It  was  Clem’s  license.” 

“And  you  was  so  quiet  we  never  thought  you  cared  about  the  saloon 
as  we  did,”  sez  I. 

“I  never  had  any  idea  Clem  Miller  would  keep  saloon  long,  if  I could 
help  it,”  sed  Aunt  Hannah  Jane.  “Still  it  was  God’s  way  of  answerin’ 
the  prayer  of  faith.” 

It  wan’t  strange  He  took  the  humble  faithful  instrument  He  did  to 
work  out  His  own  Divine  will. — Florinda  Twichell  in  Ram’s  Horn. 

THE  VOICE  OF  THE  PILOT. 

“What  though  the  mast  be  now  blown  overboard, 

The  cable  broke,  the  holding-anchor  lost, 

And  half  our  soldiers  swallowed  in  the  flood? 

Yet  lives  our  pilot  still.” — Shakespeare,  Henry  VI. 

Leonard  Newcomb  closed  the  book  and  tilting  back  his  chair  sat 
with  hands  clasped  behind  his  head.  The  bright  light  from  a reading 
lamp  threw  his  strong  young  face  into  bold  relief  against  surrounding 


STQRIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


93 


shadows  of  the  otherwise  dim  room.  His  eyes  remaintd  faster.ed  on 
the  cover  of  the  volume  he  had  just  closed,  as  though  he  still  saw  the 
lines  which  had  caught  and  held  him.  Unconsciously  his  mouth  settled 
into  firm  lines  of  resolve.  With  a slight  thud  the  forelegs  of  his  chair 
reached  the  floor,  as  though  with  them  he  pinned  down  some  hard-won 
decision.  Rising,  he  walked  slowly  up  and  down  the  sanctum,  with 
hands  thrust  deep  into  his  pockets. 

“Well,  I guess  that  about  fits  my  case,”  he  soliloquised.  “Every- 
thing will  probably  have  to  go  by  the  board,  but — I’ll  try  to  keep  the 
pilot  in  charge  of  the  ship !” 

With  a quick,  impulsive  gesture  he  drew  out  a notebook  and  copied 
the  lines  he  had  just  read.  Underlining  “pilot,”  he  wrote  in  the  margin 
“conscience.”  Then,  after  one  quick  glance  round  the  cozy  den,  he 
opened  the  door  and  descended  a wide  flight  of  luxuriously  carpeted 
stairs. 

It  was  a hard  battle  which  Leonard  Newcomb  had  just  won — a hard 
errand  upon  which  he  was  bound!  He  had  not  thought  that  life  could 
hold  passes  so  narrow  that  right  and  wrong  seemed  almost  to  touch.  In 
the  recent  struggle  he  had  steered  through  the  fret  of  foaming  waters 
guided  solely  by  the  word  of  his  pilot  — conscience.  Now  he  was  out 
upon  the  open  sea,  ready  to  face  any  impending  storm,  but  no  longer 
fearful  of  the  shallows  of  self-deception. 

Fifteen  years  before,  when  Leonard  was  a fair-haired  little  lad  of 
four,  he  had  been  taken,  and  practically  adopted,  by  an  older,  unmar- 
ried brother  of  the  father  who  was  to  him  but  a misty  memory.  Not 
even  that  impression  remained  with  him  of  his  young  mother’s  face. 
But  he  had  never  been  allowed  to  feel  his  childhood’s  loss.  His  uncle’s 
affection  and  the  care  of  a doting  nurse,  Ellen  O’Connor,  enwrapped  his 
earlier  years.  He  found  himself,  now,  with  scarcely  a manhood’s  wish 
ungratified.  Only  a week  before  he  had  returned  home  one  day  to  find 
his  “den”  refurnished  in  handsome  leather  and  mahogany — a little  pri- 
vate facsimile  of  the  library  below. 

“It  is  time  you  had  a man’s  room,  Len,”  the  elder  Newcomb  had 
said,  smiling  at  the  young  fellow’s  pleasure,  while  they  stood  surveying 
the  well-filled  bookshelves.  Leonard  halted  on  the  stairs  now,  catching 
his  breath  with  a hard  jerk  of  pain  as  the  little  scene  rose  before  him. 
He  could  not  quite  remember  when  first  the  word  “brewery”  became 
associated  in  his  mind  with  his  uncle’s  business.  But  he  vividly  recalled 


94 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


the  day,  two  years  before,  when,  upon  exhibiting  to  some  schoolmates  a 
handsome  gold  watch  and  seals,  the  birthday  gift  of  his  guardian,  one  of 
the  boys  had  turned  away  with  a slight  shrug  and  the  muttered  com- 
ment, “Beer!”  Leonard  never  forgot  the  conflicting  sensations  of  that 
moment.  Indignation,  resentment,  and  underneath  all,  something — was 
it  shame — stirring  into  uneasy  life?  The  youthful  “pilot,”  conscience, 
tried  his  sturdy  limbs  vigorously  for  the  first  time  that  day  in  an  effort  to 
get  control  of  the  ship  for  the  voyage  of  life.  Since  then  Leonard  had 
been  more  or  less  aware  of  that  pilot’s  presence  on  board.  On  this  even- 
ing, however,  things  had  come  to  a climax.  He  was  forced  to  decide, 
once  and  for  all,  by  whose  word  he  would  steer. 

“Len,”  his  uncle  said,  as  they  sat  facing  each  other  at  the  dinner 
table,  while  a soft-footed  servant  anticipated  every  want,  “how  would 
a three  months’  trip  abroad  strike  you  for  the  coming  summer?” 

“Uncle  1”  The  young  fellow’s  knife  and  fork  dropped  with  a little 
clatter  to  his  plate.  His  face  showed  such  radiant  anticipation  that 
Nathaniel  Newcomb  smiled. 

“I  think  it  can  be  arranged,”  the  man  of  wealth  went  on  in  a grat- 
ified tone.  “I  have,  in  fact,  already  had  some  communication  with  a 
young  college  professor,  who  would  act  as  your  ‘guide,  philosopher,  and 
friend.’  ” 

“Then  you  could  not  come?”  Leonard’s  face  fell. 

“No.  But  I want  you  to  take  the  trip.  I want  you  to  see  a little  of 
the  world  before — ” 

The  sentence  remained  unfinished.  Mr.  New^comb  put  out  his  hand 
to  take  a dish  which  the  maid  had  just  brought  in  and,  as  he  did  so,  the 
eyes  of  uncle  and  nephew  met.  In  that  look  one  of  those  strange  inter- 
changes of  thought  seemed  to  pass  between  them  wdiich  do  not  need 
w^ords.  Leonard  shivered,  as  though  a cold  wind  had  touched  him.  He 
leaned  back  in  his  chair.  All  appetite  for  the  well-cooked  dinner  had 
departed. 

Could  it — could’  it  be  that  his  uncle  wished  him  to  succeed  to  the — 
“business?”  That  was  how  he  interpreted  the  look.  A sudden  feeling  of 
nausea  swept  over  him  as  the  suggestion  grew  to  conviction. 

“Whew!  It  is  warm  in  here  tonight.  May  I go.  Uncle  Nat?”  he 
asked  when  the  coffee  had  been  brought  in. 

Contrary  to  his  usual  custom,  which  was  to  sit  for  a while  with  his 
uncle  in  the  library,  he  went  at  once  to  his  “den”  and  threw  himself  into 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


95 


one  of  the  deep  leather  chairs.  Everything  in  the  room  had  been  ar- 
ranged to  give  him  pleasure.  Everything  was  a gift  of  love  from  his 
uncle.  Was  he  justified  in  going  against  his  wishes — in  disappointing 
him  in  anything? 

Eor  a while  this  thought  held  him.  Then  rose  the  other  side.  To 
use  his  manhood,  the  strength  of  body  and  mind  which  he  felt  tingling 
through  every  vein,  the  vitality  which  “rejoiceth  as  a strong  man  to  run 
a race,”  in  the  manufacture  of  beer?  For  that  was  practically  what  it 
amounted  to,  even  though  his  work  would  be  in  the  office.  Never!  Un- 
consciously, as  he  made  the  decision,  his  muscular  young  shoulders 
straightened.  Just  at  that  moment  his  eyes  fell  on  the  open  Shakespeare 
on  the  table.  In  the  midst  of  confusion  his  “pilot”  still  lived.  He  would 
see  to  it  that  he  keprt  control  of  the  ship. 

Mr.  Newcomb  was  reading  near  the  long  library  table  when  he 
went  downstairs  again.  “Going  out  this  evening,  Len?”  he  asked. 

“No,  Uncle  Nat.  I — in  fact,  I want  to  speak  to  you.” 

There  was  a slight  tightening  of  the  lips  as  Nathaniel  Newcomb  laid 
down  his  book.  That  the  young  man  before  him  was  quick  of  percep- 
tion he  knew.  The  change  in  his  face  and  loss  of  appetite  at  the  dinner 
table  had  not  passed  unnoticed  by  the  keen  eyes  which  observed  him. 

“Well?”  Unconsciously  his  voice  had  stiffened  and  grown  colder. 

Leonard  remained  standing,  his  hand  gripping  the  back  of  a heavy 
mahogany  chair. 

“It  isn’t  fair.  Uncle  Nat,”’ he  began,  “to  let  you  go  on  doing  every- 
thing for  me  and,  perhaps,  thinking  that  I could  ever  — could  ever ” 

It  was  harder  to  say  than  he  thought.  He  stopped  and  moistened 
his  lips. 

“Well?”  The  word  cut  the  silence  in  two  like  cold  steel. 

“Could  ever  succeed  you  in  the  — the  business.” 

It  was  out!  He  drew  a deep  breath  of  relief.  His  uncle’s  eyes 
were  fixed  on  the  floor;  his  finger  tips  tapped  the  polished  surface  of 
the  table. 

“You  feel  yourself  above  it  — no  doubt.”  Again  the  chill  tone 
broke  a tense  silence. 

“I  do.”  Involuntarily  Leonard  straightened  his  strong,  young  body. 
“Though  not  in  the  way  you  think,  uncle.  I would  do  any  work  — the 
hardest  work  — as  long  as ” 


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STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


Mr.  Newcomb  cut  short  his  eager  protestations  with  one  uplifted 
hand. 

“Is  that  all?” 

“No,  I — I would  rather  — not  take  — the  trip  to  Europe.  I am  old 
enough  to  — to  do  something  on  my  own  account  now.” 

A bitter  smile  crossed  the  elder  man’s  face.  “I  understand  — 
perfectly,”  he  said  with  slow  distinctness.  “You  are,  indeed,  your 
mother’s  son ! A Leonard  every  whit.” 

He  rose  deliberately,  and  going  to  a desk  in  one  corner  of  the 
room,  took  from  it  a paper.  Holding  the  document  in  his  left  hand,  he 
turned  and  faced  Leonard,  whose  strong,  young  face  had  grown  very 
white. 

“Twenty-one  years  ago  to-night,”  he  said,  slowly,  “your  father 
stood  before  me  and  said  what  you  are  saying  now  — said  it  when  I 
had  just  drawn  up  the  papers  which  were  to  take  him  into  partnership, 
as”  — he  tapped  with  his  right  forefinger  the  document  which  he  still 
had  — “I,  to-day,  pleased  myself  by  drawing  up  this!  He  preferred  a 
clerkship  on  a pittance  of  twenty  dollars  a week  to  a position  with  me 
which  would  have  given  him  more  than  five  times  that  amount,  and  — 
he  had  his  way.  It  was  due  to  the  influence  of  his  wife’s  family.  You 
have  evidently  inherited  something  from  the  Leonards  besides  the 
name !” 

With  a jerk  he  tore  the  paper  in  two  and  tossed  it  aside.  The 
action  seemed  to  unloose  all  the  torrent  of  his  pent-up  anger  and  dis- 
appointment. 

“Go!” 

His  voice  was  as  the  sudden  crash  of  storm-charged  clouds  in  its 
vibrant  harshness,  as  he  pointed  to  the  door. 

“Uncle  Nat!”  Leonard  started  forw'^ard  with  outstretched  hands,  his 
face  pale  and  quivering  — “hear  me!  Don’t  send  me  from  you  like  this! 
Don’t  you  see  how  much  easier  it  would  be  for  me  to  do  the  thing  that 
you  wish  — to  follow  ‘the  line  of  least  resistance’?  But it  would  mean 
the  death  of  all  that  is  best  in  me  — of  all  that  will  ever  make  my  life 
worth  while!  It  isn’t  that  I am  ungrateful  — that  I love  you  — any  — 

the  less ” His  voice  stopped,  shut  off  by  a wall  of  sobs  which  his 

manhood  held  back.  At  another  time  the  appeal  would  have  moved  and 
melted  the  man  who  loved  him.  But,  unconsciously,  Leonard  had,  in 
one  slash,  by  his  bravely  expressed  convictions,  severed  the  ropes  with 


THE  GHASTLY  PRODUCTS  MADE  IN  THE  SALOON 

The  Demon — Strong  Drink,  consumes  woman,  make  Madmen.  Convicts  and  Tramps  of  men,  and  blights  and  desolate* 

children. 


A BAD  EXAMPLE. 

Many  of  the  first  steps  in  the  liquor  habit  are  the  result  of  just  such  a condition 
as  this.  The  boy  reasons:  “Father  drinks,  so  why  can’t  I?’’  and  at  the  first 
opportunity  indulges — because  Father  does. 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


97 


which,  thirty-five  years  before,  Nathaniel  Newcomb  had  bound  down  his 
pilot.  Those  bonds  had  changed  so  rapidly  into  fetters  of  gold  that  for 
years  conscience,  apparently,  slept.  Now  he  realized  that  the  pilot  was 
awake,  ready  to  take  vengeance  for  that  long  thraldom,  that  already 
he  had  begun  to  cut  with  stinging  lashes.  And  Nathaniel  Newcomb 
could  not  readily  forgive  the  hand  which  had  plunged  him  into  renewed 
warfare  with  such  a foe.  Moreover,  the  cloak  of  self-complacent  philan- 
thropy in  which  he  wrapped  himself,  and  which  he  invariably  drew 
before  his  eyes  when  passing  a saloon  which  bore  the  sign,  “Newcomb’s 
best  ale  and  beer,”  slipped  from  him  and  he  saw  Nathaniel  Newcomb 
as  he  was  — a man  who  catered  to  the  weakness  of  his  fellows  and 
enriched  his  own  coffers  by  that  weakness. 

But,  as  yet,  the  vision  brought  only  a seething  wave  of  anger 
against  the  “boy”  who  had  thrust  him  back  into  the  storm  of  inner 
conflict  which  he  had  thought  forever  stilled ; who  had,  all  unwittingly, 
held  up  before  his  eyes  his  own  cramped,  sordid  soul. 

“Go !”  The  word  was  ground  out  with  labored  breath,  as  he  pointed 
again  to  the  door.  “All  obligation  between  you  and  me  is  at  an  end. 
At  least  — find  the  miserable  clerkship  you  prefer  and  support  yourself 
as  soon  as  possible !” 

“Got  that  policy  finished,  Newcomb?” 

“Yes,  sir.” 

Mr.  Burbank,  senior  partner  of  the  firm  of  Burbank  & Hubbard, 
fire  insurance  agents,  took  the  paper  which  Leonard  brought  him  and 
reentered  the  private  office.  His  critical  eye  scanned  the  sheet  closely 
before  laying  it  on  his  desk. 

“Young  Newcomb  takes  hold  all  right,”  he  remarked  to  his  partner 
with  ‘evident  satisfaction.  “None  of  the  thoughtless  mistakes  with 
which  Frank  Witter  interlarded  his  work. 

“Witter  only  kept  the  tail-end  of  his  mind  on  what  he  was  doing, 
and  Newcomb  gives  himself  v/holly  to  it  — that’s  the  difference,”  Mr. 
Hubbard  replied,  without  lifting  his  head  from  the  document  upon 
which  he  was  engaged.  After  a moment’s  silence  he  swung  round  in 
his  office  chair  and,  with  a motion  toward  the  closed  door,  said,  in  a 
lowered  tone ; “I  wonder  what  the  trouble  was  between  him  and  the 
uncle?” 

Mr.  Burbank  also  turned  slowly  until  he  faced  the  younger  man. 
“I  don’t  think  the  answer  to  that  is  hard  to  find.”  He  waved  one  hand 


98 


. STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


toward  a window,  through  which,  in  the  distance,  the  tall  chimneys  6f 
Newcomb’s  brewery  could  be  seen  belching  out  volumes  of  black  smoke. 

“You  think  it  was  that?”  Sydney  Hubbard’s  eyebrows  raised  them- 
selves as  he  followed  the  other’s  glance. 

“I  do.” 

“Whew ! The  lad  must  have  grit.  It’s  a far  cry  from  a brownstone 
residence,  six  thousand  dollar  touring  car  and  spending  money  in  plenty, 
to  getting  along  on  a salary  of  ten  dollars  a week.” 

“It  is.  But,  if  I read  him  aright,  Leonard  Newcomb  will  never 
juggle  with  his  convictions.  It  would  be  impossible  for  him  to  follow 
the  slippery  path  of  compromise',  because  he  saw  that  ultimately  the 
way  would  be  paved  with  dollars,  as,  I shrewdly  suspect,  the  uncle  did 
at  his  age  when  he  accepted  a position  in  Bingham  Brothers’  Brewery, 
as  it  was  then.  I used  to  know  Nat  Newcomb  well  in  those  days  — one 
of  the  brightest  young  fellows  in  the  city !” 

“It  must  have  been  a terrible  wrench  for  both  of  them,”  Mr.  Hub- 
bard said,  musingly,  going  back  to  the  primal  object  of  their  conver- 
sation. 

“I  don’t  like  to  think  ot  it,”  the  senior  partner’s  brows  drew 
together  as  though  conjecture  about  the  matter  gave  him  pain,  “and 
it  has  left  its  mark  on  the  boy.  Sydney,  believe  me”  — the  elder  man’s 
voice  grew  husky  — “that  lad  is  fashioned  out  of  the  stuff  that  martyrs 
are  made  of.  If  I am  not  greatly  mistaken,  this  thing  has  been  to  him 
a case  of  ‘He  that  loveth  father  or  mother  more  than  me  is  not  worthy 
of  me.’  ” 

In  the  outer  office  Leonard  bent  over  his  desk,  the  whole  force  of 
his  mind  concentrated  on  becoming  familiar  with  the  business  he  had 
entered  and  of  value  to  his  employers.  He  could  not  yet  think  of  the 
day,  nearly  two  months  before,  when  he  had  turned  his  back  on  the 
only  home  he  had  ever  known,  without  a stab  or  pain  so  keen  that  it 
seemed  to  turn  everything  dark  before  his  eyes.  Before  leaving  the 
house  he  had  sought  out  his  old  nurse,  Ellen  O’Connor,  who  now  acted 
as  housekeeper,  and  trying  to  make  her  understand  what  had  occurred, 
begged  her  to  let  him  have  news  of  his  uncle.  The  good  woman  flung 
up  her  hands  in  dismay. 

“Wisha,  Mr.  Len,  ’tisn’t  thinkin’  of  goin’  ag’en  the  master’s  wishes 
you’d  be?”  she  demanded.  Then,  as  Leonard,  seeing  the  futility  of 


STORIES  OF  HELP’S  COMMERCE 


99 


explanation,  patted  her  shoulder  affectionately:  “Oh,  sure,  ’tis  ruinin’ 
yer  prospects  entirely  ye  are !” 

She  had  followed  him  to  the  door,  pleading,  protesting,  finally 
prophesying,  with  the  optimism  of  her  race,  that  “ ’twas  back  ag’en  the 
master  ’d  have  him  tomorra.” 

But  to-morrow  and  many  morrows  passed,  and  he  did  not  come. 
Twice  he  wrote  to  his  uncle  short,  manly  letters,  expressive  of  unfailing 
gratitude  and  affection,  but  touching  not  at  all  on  the  matter  which 
divided  them.  For  Leonard  felt  that  if  it  were  to  do  over,  he  must  take 
the  same  course. 

A note  to  Ellen  had  elicited  a tear-blotted  reply,  in  which  she 
jumped  from  censure  at  the  course  he  had  taken  to  bemoaning  the  fact 
that  he  had  no  one  to  look  after  him  now.  Leonard  put  the  letter  in 
his  breast  pocket,  smiling,  with  moist  eyes. 

“Dear  old  Ellen ! I suppose  I will  always  be  to  her  the  little  chap 
who  used  to  sit  on  her  knee  for  hours,  listening  to  stories  about 
diminutive  men  in  cocked  hats  who  sat  on  potato  ridges  and  knew 
where  untold  treasure  was  hidden !”  he  thought  with  loyal  affection. 

With  renewed  vigor  he  applied  himself  to  his  work.  But  Mr.  Bur- 
bank was  right  — the  parting  with  his  uncle  had  left  its  mark  on 
Leonard.  In  that  first  fierce  storm  of  life  some  of  the  fresh  green  leaves 
of  boyhood  had  been  blown  away,  never  to  return  ; but  the  roots  of  man- 
hood, gaining  fiber  and  strength,  struck  down  deep  into  the  soil  of 
eternal  truth.  One  great  question  was  forever  decided  ^or  Leonard 
Newcomb.  Personal  gain,  personal  advancement,  personal  comfort  at 
the  cost  of  his  fellow-men  could  never  again  make  the  slightest  appeal 
to  him.  He  had  stamped  out  forever  the  ego  which,  in  the  arrogance 
of  conscious  power  and  strength  of  will,  says,  “Every  man  for  himself !” 
He  had  placed  the  best  of  which  he  was  capable  — his  strong  young 
manhood  — on  the  side  of  Him  who  said,  “My  life  for  every  man!” 

But  if  the  parting  had  left  its  mark  on  Len,  what  about  the  uncle 
who  sat  alone  in  his  costly  house?  For  hours  at  a time  he  remained 
' shut  up  in  the  library,  staring  before  him  with  unseeing  eyes,  his  mind 
busy  with  scenes  which  had  been  enacted  in  that  room.  Again  he  saw 
the  little  fair-haired  lad,  perched  on  his  knee,  building  air  castles  about 
the  future  and  always  ending  with,  “When  Fm  a great,  big  man, 
Kebunk!”  The  old,  childish  substitute  for  “uncle”  seem.ed  to  sound 
again  in  his  ears.  He  saw  the  long-limbed  boy,  poring  over  his  Latin 


100 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


grammar.  He  saw  him,  as  he  had  seen  him  that  last  night,  a man 
proclaiming  his  man’s  convictions.  Every  day  seemed  to  bring  some- 
thing which  impressed  on  him  more  keenly  the  fact  that  Leonard  was 
gone.  Just  now  it  was  the  illness  of  his  chauffeur,  which  made  it  neces- 
sary for  him  to  take  the  street  car  to  and  from  his  office.  Although 
nervous  about  riding  with  a stranger,  he  had  never  been  afraid  to  trust 
to  Len’s  steady  head  and  strong  hand.  In  fact,  the  evening  spin  to  the 
office  for  his  uncle,  in  the  luxuriously  cushioned  automobile,  had  been 
one  of  the  young  fellow’s  pleasurable  duties  for  months  past. 

It  was  with  a fresh  stab  of  loneliness  that  Mr.  Newcomb  stepped, 
one  evening,  from  his  office  to  the  dingy  street  which  led  to  the  electric 
car.  As  he  walked  along  he  became  aware  of  a towering  figure  ahead, 
lunging  forward  with  uneven  gait.  He  recognized  it  at  once  as  that  of 
one  of  his  own  workmen,  a huge  Swede,  named  Anderson,  who  had 
recently  been  discharged  for  drunkenness.  Mr.  Newcomb  stood  still 
with  suspended  breath.  Perched  on  the  man’s  shoulder  sat  a fair- 
haired child  of  two  or  three  years.  One  chubby  arm  encircled  her 
father’s  head,  the  fingers  clutching  his  cap  and  hair  in  a frantic  effort 
to  retain  the  uncertain  seat.  The  other  hand  held  a stick  of  pink  candy, 
upon  which  she  sucked  blissfully,  unconscious  of  her  peril.  Every 
moment  it  seemed  as  if  man  and  child  must  come  crashing  to  the 
ground.  More  than  once,  when  Mr.  Newcomb  closed  his  eyes  for  an 
instant  with  sickening  certainty  that  the  end  had  come,  the  big  Swede 
regained  his  balance  as  though  by  a miracle.  Then  — a cry  of  horror 
burst  from  the  lips  of  the  wealthy  brewer  — Anderson’s  foot  caught  in 
the  curbstone.  With  a lunge  he  pitched  heavily  forward  out  into  the 
street.  But  before  he  could  strike  the  ground,  someone  had  darted  from, 
behind  a passing  vehicle  and  snatched  the  child  from  his  arms.  White 
and  panting,  Mr.  Newcomb  came  up,  as,  with  lightning  rapidity,  a 
crowd  gathered.  Across  the  body  of  the  prostrate  man  he  confronted 
his  nephew,  Leonard ! 

At  his  full  height  stood  the  young  man,  a head  and  shoulders  above 
the  curious  spectators;  the  child,  who  now  caught  her  breath  in  little 
soft  hiccoughs  of  fear,  held  safe  and  unharmed  against  his  breast.  And 
in  a flash  his  uncle  realized  that  thus  would  he  ever  stand,  while  he 
had  breath,  against  the  influences  which  drag  men  down,  thus  would 
he  defend  with  the  last  drop  of  blood  in  his  body  the  helpless  victims 
of  those  influences.  In  that  long,  intense  look,  Nathaniel  Newcomb 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


101 


saw  nothing  in  the  eyes  that  met  his  own  but  grief  — a grief  which 
seemed  to  say:  “Is  our  name  to  be  connected,  even  indirectly,  with 
such  work  as  this  ?”  The  tall  figure  seemed  to  waver  before  his  sight, 
and  he  saw  again  the  fair-haired  little  lad,  with  eyes  like  those  of  the 
child  who  leaned  against  Leonard’s  shoulder.  And  he  knew  that  the 
man  before  him  kept  his  soul  clean  and  pure,  “unspotted  from  the 
world,”  and,  because  of  that  keeping,  could  claim  the  “knighthood  to 
God”  which  he,  Nathaniel  Newcomb,  had  forfeited. 

With  bent  head,  as  though  suddenly  stricken  with  age,  he  passed 
down  a side  street.  The  day  of  reckoning  had  fully  come.  The  battle 
which  had  raged  within  him  for  months  was  at  an  end.  The  thing 
which  all  along  he  had  tried  to  smother  seemed  suddenly  to  have  leaped 
at  him  with  hideous  force.  “To  his  own  master  he  standeth  or  falleth.” 
Why  did  the  words  rush  back  on  him  now?  Ah,  because  he,  Nathaniel 
Newcomb,  had  fallen!  — fallen  from  the  high  ideals  he  had  once  held. 
Because,  thirty-five  years  before,  he  had  disregarded  the  voice  of  his 
pilot.  To  the  full  he  realized  now  that  by  that  voice  each  man  must 
steer,  no  matter  what  the  course,  unless  he  wants  to  make  shipwreck 
of  his  life.  All  these  years  he  had  clung  to  the  thing  which  his  con- 
science disallowed,  only  to  find  it  rising  at  last,  like  a specter,  to 
separate  him  from  the  one  being  on  earth  whom  he  loved. 

Leonard  leaned  back  in  his  corner  of  the  day  coach  and,  having 
the  seat  to  himself,  stretched  his  long  limbs,  cramped  from  five  hours’ 
enforced  inaction.  He  was  returning  from  a short  business  trip,  upon 
which  he  had  started  with  Mr.  Hubbard  the  very  morning  after  his 
rescue  of  Anderson’s  little  girl.  The  junior  partner  insisted  that  he  was 
none  too  young  to  learn  the  duties  of  inspector,  irw  case  it  ever  became 
necessary  to  send  him  on  “the  road.”  In  reality,  Sydney  Hubbard’s 
urgency  in  the  matter  was  stimulated  by  a desire  that  Leonard,  to 
whom  he  had  taken  a great  liking,  should  have  some  change  from  the 
confinement  and  routine  of  office  life,  to  which  he  had  hitherto  been 
so  accustomed. 

The  trip  was  one  of  keen  interest  and  pleasure  to  young  New- 
comb, coming  after  months  of  loneliness  and  hard  work.  Looking  back 
on  the  time  since  he  left  his  uncle’s  house,  it  seemed  as  though  every 
step  had  been  hewn  out  of  solid  rock,  but  the  hewing  had  developed 
his  moral  muscle  and  given  him  an  exhilarating  feeling  of  strength  and 
endurance.  He  had  followed,  fearlessly,  one  “point  of  contact  with 


102 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


God”  — the  voice  of  conscience  — and  it  had  led  him  out  into  fields  of 
experience  of  which  he  had  only  vaguely  dreamed.  He  began  to  realize 
that  some  point  of  contact  with  Eternal  Truth  exists  in  the  life  of  every 
man  and  woman.  That  to  neglect  it  is  to  shut  the  door  on  all  larger 
vision.  To  follow  it  leads  inevitably  to  a knowledge  of  Him  who  was 
Truth  — to  that  most  sublime  of  all  confessions,  “My  Lord  and  my 
God !”  And  in  the  past  week  he  knew  that  a friendship  had  been  forged 
which  would  enrich  his  whole  life.  Sydney  Hubbard,  although  fifteen 
years  his  senior,  was  a man  of  abounding  vitality,  strong  and  purposeful. 
Together  they  had  visited  all  kinds  of  insurance  “risks,”  from  isolated 
farmhouses  tO'  city  factories,  indulging  in  many  a hearty  laugh  over 
their  experiences.  Leonard  was  now  returning  home  while  Mr.  Hub- 
bard took  a few  days’  holiday. 

As  the  train  drew  up  at  a wayside  station,  he  leaned  from  the 
window  and  motioned  to  a newsboy  who  was  vociferously  calling: 
“News,  Extra-a ! All  about  the  fire!” 

With  rather  languid  interest  Leonard  unfolded  the  sheet.  Then 
his  hands  suddenly  clutched  its  edges  until  they  crumpled  into  shreds. 
The  headline  which  met  his  eyes  ran:  “Fierce  blaze  destroys  entire 
business  block!  Newcomb’s  Brewery  a mass  of  smolderng  ruins.” 

Instinctively  Leonard  jumped  to  his  feet.  His  uncle  — to  get  to 
him ! That  was  his  first  thought.  His  second  came  with  a throb  of 
thankfulness  — he  was  scarcely  thirty  miles  from  home  and  could  be 
with  him  in  little  over  an  hour. 

As  he  sank  back  into  his  seat,  the  name  “Newcomb,”  coming  from 
the  section  behind,  where  two  men  were  sitting,  reached  him. 

“Yes,  ’twas  a bad  fire,”  one  of  them  was  saying,  “but  Newcomb 
is  sure  to  have  been  insured  for  every  penny.  You  can’t  get  ahead  of 
him.  Anyway,  a man  who  can  write  his  check  for  six  figures  can  stand 
some  loss !” 

“I  don’t  know  about  the  six  figures,”  his  companion  replied.  “Healy” 
— mentioning  a well-known  broker — “tells  me  that  he’s  been  speculating 
pretty  heavily  lately.  Lost  a cool  fifty  thousand  in  some  land  scheme ! 
His  grip  seems  to  have  weakened.  He  has  gone  into  anything  that 
came  along,  as  though  he  didn’t  care  whether  he  sacrificed  money  or  not. 
It  doesn’t  take  a man  long  to  go  through  a pretty  big  sum  at  that  rate.” 

Leonard  got  up  and  moved  to  an  empty  seat  in  the  forward  part  of 
the  car.  He  felt  sick  at  heart  for  his  uncle.  What  if,  at  the  end  of  all 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


103 


these  years,  everything  had  been  swept  away?  His  longing  to  reach  him 
outsped  the  train  and  made  the  boy  chafe  miserably  at  delay. 

It  was  with  a lump  rising  in  his'  throat  from  rushing  memories 
that  he  sprang  up  the  well-known  flight  of  massive  stone  steps  to  his 
old  home.  Ellen  O’Connor  opened  the  door  and  fell  back  with  upthrown 
hands  at  sight  of  him. 

“Mr.  Len!”  — joy  and  relief  ran  a race  with  tears  in  her  voice  — 
“an’  is  it  yerself?  Come  inside,  asthore!  O,  but  ’tis  glad  I am  to 
see  ye !” 

“Where  is  he?”  Leonard  asked,  breathlessly. 

Ellen  jerked  a thumb  over  her  shoulder  toward  the  library  door. 
But  as  Leonard  strode  toward  it  she  caught  him  back  until  he  stood 
under  the  full  light  of  the  hall. 

“Let  me  have  another  look  at  ye !”  Tears  were  streaming,  unre- 
strained, down  her  honest  face.  “Me  little  fair-haired  boy  that  was ! 
An’  you  the  splindid  man,  God  bless  ye ! Go  in  to  the  master,  now, 
■ for  ’tis  aitin’  his  heart  out  for  a sight  of  ye  he’s  been  these  months  past, 
an’  him  too  proud  to  own  it !” 

It  might  have  been  the  figure  of  a much  older  man  than  his  uncle 
which  sat  at  the  library  table,  the  head  resting  on  one  hand,  when 
Leonard  entered  the  room, 

“Kebunk !” 

The  familiar,  old  name  slipped'  from  his  lips  as  he  sank  on  one  knee 
and  laid  a strong,  young  arm  across  the  bent  shoulders.  Mr.  Newcomb 
shivered,  but  did  not  raise  his  head. 

“Don’t  take  it  so  much  to  heart,  Uncle  Nat,  don’t — ” Leonard  was 
groping  wildly  after  some  fitting  consolation. 

With  a spasmodic  movement  his  uncle  freed  himself  and  instinctively 
both  rose  to  their  feet. 

“Do  you  think  I regret  that?”  Leonard  started  at  sight  of  the 
haggard  eyes  that  met  his  own,  “It  is  the  years  — the  years  — the 
years  that  I have  wasted !” 

He  sank  back  into  his  chair  while  Leonard  stood  helplessly  by. 
The  sight  of  this  grief  was  terrible  to  him. 

“Wasted?”  His  uncle’s  voice  was  like  a wail.  “God  help  me! 
If  that  were  all,  I could  bear  it  and  take  my  punishment.” 

Leonard  drew  up  a chair  and  sat  with  one  hand  resting  on  his 
knee.  After  a while  the  older  man  laid  his  own  upon  it,  and  for  some 


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STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


time  they  remained  thus  in  silence.  Then  Mr.  Newcomb  withdrew  his 
own  and  took  from  an  inside  pocket  a note-book  which  Len  recognized 
as  his. 

“I  found  this  after  you  had  gone,”  his  uncle  said, in  a low  voice, 
“and  I found  these,”  turning  to  the  lines  Leonard  had  copied,  “with 
the  date  written  below.  My  boy” — he  laid  the  open  book  on  the  table 
and  faced  his  nephew  — “thank  God  — thank  God,  with  your  latest 
breath,  that  you  obeyed  the  voice  of  your  ‘pilot’  before  you  had  made 
shipwreck  of  your  life ! I stand  to-day  where  I stood  thirty-five  years 
ago,  as  far  as  this  world’s  goods  are  concerned,”  he  went  on,* in  a 
trembling  voice,  “and  in  that  space  of  time  I have  measured  to  the 
full  that  it  profits  a man  nothing  to  gain  the  whole  world  and  lose 
himself !” 

“Have  — have  you  nothing  left,  uncle?”  Leonard  asked  hesitatingly. 

“Only  what  will  pay  my  outstanding  obligations.” 

“But  — the  insurance?” 

“The  old  policy  lapsed  two  days  ago.  I meant  to  turn  what  business 
I controlled  in  that  way  over  to  your  firm  — if  they  would  take  it.” 

Leonard  laid  one  hand  quickly  on  the  elder  man’s  arm.  He  knew 
the  motive  which  underlay  this  thought.  But  his  heart  had  given  a 
great  bound.  Here  was  his  opportunity,  the  opportunity  he  had  always 
craved,  of  showing  his  love  and  gratitude  to  the  uncle  who  had  done 
so  much  for  him ! 

“It  is  my  turn  now.  Uncle  Nat!”  he  cried,  eagerly.  “I  can  earn 
enough  to  keep  the  wolf  from  the  door  of  both  of  us.  My  salary  has 
been  raised  and ” 

But  his  uncle’s  enforced  composure  had  suddenly  given  away. 
Tears  were  coursing  slowly  down  his  cheeks  a^  he  looked  with  starved 
eyes  into  the  young  face  at  his  side. 

“I  care  for  nothing  — as  long  as  you  are  spared  to  me,”  he  said, 
chokingly.  “It  is  more  than  I deserve ! But  I need  not  be  a burden 
to  you,  my  boy.  I have  some  little  property,  enough  to  keep  me,  which 
came  to  me  from  my  mother.  Only  — stay  with  me,  Len,  always!” 

In  silence  their  hands  met  with  a close  clasp.  A question  trembled 
on  Leonard’s  lips  which  they  hardly  dared  to  frame.  As  though  in 
answer  to  his  thought,  his  uncle  said : “I  need  scarcely  say  that  one 
stone  of  the  — the  brewery”  — he  brought  the  word  out  with  a wince — 
“will  never  be  rebuilt.  I am  going  to  give  the  land  to  the  city  for  a 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


105 


square  — a breathing  space  for  some  of  the  people  who  live  around 
there.” 

“Hurrah!”  Leonard  caught  up  the  old  note-book  and  tossing  it 
into  the  air,  caught  it  again.  “Even  if  mast,  cable,  anchor  and  soldiers 
are  gone,  ‘Yet  lives  our  pilot  still’!  Uncle,  it  is  worth  everything  — all 
the  long  months  of  loneliness  and  separation  that  we  have  both  been 
through  — to  hear  you  say  that!” 

In  a diminutive  garden  attached  to  a small  suburban  cottage,  .a 
young  man,  minus  hat  and  coat,  worked  vigorously  spading  up  the 
soft  earth  into  ridges,  which  he  fondly  hoped  would,  in  due  time,  yield 
a flourishing  crop  of  vegetables.  Stopping  to  wipe  his  moist  brow,  he 
threw  a bright  glance  of  inquiry  at  an  elderly  man  who  sat  watching 
his  labors. 

“How’s  that.  Uncle  Nat!  That  ridge  look  straight  to  you?” 

Mr.  Newcomb  drew  one  hand  across  his  eyes.  In  truth,  he  had  seen 
little  of  the  embryo  garden,  so  occupied  had  he  been  with  the  young 
gardener’s  splendid  muscles  as  he  swung  his  spade. 

“I  think  it  is  straight  — it  looks  so  to  me,”  he  said,  stooping  hastily 
to  hide  the  emotion  which  sometimes  overcame  him  when  he  looked 
at  Leonard. 

“What  do  you  think,  Ellen?”  The  young  man  turned  to  a pleasant- 
faced woman  who  was  taking  some  spotless  clothes  from  the  line. 

Ellen  O’Connor  regarded  the  operations  with  pursed-up  lips,  her 
head  held  at  a critical  angle. 

“Sure,  Mr.  Len,  a ram’s  horn  is  a fool  to  it !”  she  anrlounced, 
solemnly,  with  arms  akimbo. 

Leonard,  dropping  his  spade,  made  a boyish  dash  at  her,  before 
which  Ellen,  snatching  up  her  basket  of  linen,  beat  a panting  retreat 
into  the  house. 

As  darkness  fell,  uncle  and  nephew  strolled,  arm  in  arm,  round 
their  little  domain.  When,  at  last,  their  steps  turned  to  the  house, 
Nathaniel  Newcomb  laid  one  hand  on  the  young  man’s  arm. 

“Len,”  he  said,  huskily,  “the  man  who  obeys  his  “pilot’s’  voice, 
promptly  and  unswervingly,  as  you  did,  not  alone  saves  his  own  life 
from  shipwreck  — but  — he  may  help  some  struggling  craft  — which  has 
disregarded  orders — to  reach  harbor  — at  last.” — Mary  L.  Cummings 
in  Classmate. 


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STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


AT  THE  STROKE  OF  NINE. 

It  was  a pretty,  white  cottage,  on  a broad,  green  lawn,  with  a stone 
walk  leading  to  the  gate.  By  the  door  a rose  climbed  over  the  wall,  and 
the  gentle  north  wind  scattered  the  white  petals  like  snow  on  the 
ground.  And  the  perfume  from  those  flowers  floated  up,  rich  and  sweet, 
like  the  breath  of  incense,  burning  in  the  temple  of  old. 

A woman,  whose  hair  was  just  touched  with  gray,  stood  in  the  door- 
way, and  a tall,  handsome  young  man  lingered  at  the  gate. 

“Good-bye,”  the  woman  was  saying,  “be  sure  to  stop  at  the  hotel 
with  Fred  Gilvan.  I am  sure  he  will  keep  you  out  of  mischief.  Be  a 
good  boy,  and  remember  every  night  and  morning  at  9 o’clock  I will 
pray  for  you.” 

“Good-bye,”  he  said,  as  he  closed  the  gate,  “good-bye.” 

He  passed  down  the  street  in  all  the  beauty  of  his  young  manhood, 
with  his  fine  square  shoulders  straight  and  his  proud  head  erect. 

Night  in  the  great  city,  with  its  revel  of  sin  and  crime.  It  was  the 
same  old  story;  it  need  not  be  repeated,  how  Paul  Durgin  w’as  tempted 
and  amid  the  jeers  of  his  companions  fell;  home,  mother  and  every- 
thing were  forgotten. 

As  he  staggered  down  the  street,  he  met  Fred  Gilvan.  “Paul,”  said 
Fred,  laying  his  hand  on  his  friend’s  shoulder,  “what  does  this  mean?” 

“Oh,  I’ve  been  on  a little  jaunt,”  replied  Paul,  uneasily. 

“Paul,  do  you  realize  how  far  you  have  fallen  to-night,  have  you 
forgotten  the  teachings  of  your  mother?” 

There  was  no  reply,  and  Fred  continued,  “Do  you  realize  that 
to-night  you  have  taken  the  first  step  on  the  downward  road ; that  you 
have  forged  the  first  link  in  your  chain  of  destruction,  that  you  are  lost 
unless ” 

The  sentence  was  never  finished,  for  Paul  turned  fiercely  upon  him. 

“See  here,”  he  said  hotly,  “you  hush ; I’m  not  going  to  listen  to 
your  eternal  preaching.  I’ll  do  as  I please,  and  I won’t  take  anything 
off  of  you,  do  you  understand?”  His  voice  rose  and  his  eyes  glowed 
with  a strange  light. 

He  was  usually  slow  to  anger,  but  whiskey  had  fired  his  brain  and 
he  was  mad.  “Yes,”  replied  the  low  voice  of  his  friend,  “I  understand, 
but  Oh,  Paul ! I can’t  see  you  go  to  destruction  without  trying  to  save 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


107 


3'-ou;  we  have  always  been  such  good  friends,  and  it  breaks  my  heart 
to  see ” 

Here,  without  a word  of  warning,  Paul  raised  his  arm  and  struck 
him  a blow  on  the  head. 

There  was  no  moan  or  outcry,  as  his  gentle,  noble,  trusting  friend 
fell  to  the  ground. 

Paul  stood  still,  looking  at  the  prostrate  form  at  his  feet;  then 
looking  fearfully  around,  he  knelt  down  and  had  his  hand  over  his 
friend’s  heart  — it  was  still.  His  dear  old  playmate,  chum,  and  friend 
was  beyond  recall. 

The  moonbeams  fell  directly  on  the  white,  still  face,  with  its  high, 
white  forehead  and  clustering  hair. 

He  knelt  there,  gazing  into  that  quiet  face,  eagerly  watching  for 
some  sign  of  life,  but  he  watched  in  vain. 

As  the  truth  slowly  dawned  upon  him,  he  covered  his  face  with  his 
hands  and  moaned  aloud : 

“He  is  dead,”  he  said  slowly,  “dead,  and  I killed  him,  but  God 
knows  I didn’t  mean  to  — I loved  him.  Oh,  Fred!” 

He  took  his  hands  from  his  face  and  looked  at  them  eagerly.  They 
were  smooth  and  white,  but  he  shook  his  head.  “They  are  covered  with 
blood,”  he  said  with  a shudder,  “but  I was  mad  with  drink,  I never  was 
drunk  before,  but  now  I am  a murderer.” 

He  stretched  out  his  hands  to  the  skies,  and  just  then  the  clock 
in  the  tower  chimed  out  the  hour — 1,  2,  3 — 7,  8,  9.  “Nine  o’clock,”  he 
moaned,  “Oh,  mother.” 

!|i  * ^ * 

The  large  court  room  was  crowded  with  people  to  hear  the  ver- 
dict, “Ninety-nine  years  of  penal  servitude.” 

The  judge  asked  the  prisoner  if  he  had  anything  to  say,  and  in  a 
trembling  voice  he  said,  “Your  Honor,  I would  like  to  say  a few  words 
before  I am  taken  away  forever  from  my  fellow-men.” 

“In  memory  I can  see  a little  white  school-house,  with  its  broad 
playground  shaded  by  rows  of  leafy  maples. 

“I  see  the  children  as  they  play  their  games  at  recess,  and  coming 
home,  I see  two  little  boys,  side  by  side,  with  their  lunch  baskets; 
perhaps  eating  an  apple  or  a piece  of  cake,  each  one  dividing  with  the 
other. 

“I  see  them  in  the  sweet  summer-time  wading  in  the  old  mill 


108 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


stream,  or  laying  on  the  grassy  bank  watching  the  fish.  I see  them 
as  they  grow  to  manhood  and  enter  college ; then  again  I see  them 
standing  side  by  side  on  the  battlefield'  in  their  suits  of  blue. 

“But  these  sweet  visions  fade,  and  another  one  appears. 

“I  see  one  of  them  going  the  downward  path;  I see  him  as  he 
staggers  down  the  street,  and  I see  the  other  one  with  his  high-born, 
pure  face,  pleading  with  the  drunken  one  to  reform ; I hear  his  kind  voice 
as  he  pleads,  but  pleads  in  vain. 

“And  then  the  drunken  one  raises  his  hand  and  strikes  his  friend 
to  the  ground.  I see  him  as  he  lies  still  and  motionless  in  the  moon- 
light. 

‘“Then  I see  a dark,  gloomy  prison,  surrounded  by  its  high  walls, 
and  in  that  prison  I see  the  one  who  committed  the  crime,  serving  his 
life  sentence. 

“I  see  him  toiling  day  by  day,  with  never  a hope  of  release,  shut 
in  from  the  busy  outside  world,  never  again  to  wander  free,  never 
again  to  associate  with  the  friends  and  companions  of  former  years,  but 
there,  in  that  gloomy  prison,  to  toil  till  life  shall  end,  then  be  buried 
in  a potter’s  field  and  be  forgotten  by  all  who  once  knew  and  loved  him. 

“Gentlemen  of  the  jury,  I was  drunk  only  once,  but  it  was  enough. 
I have  finished.” 

He  covered  his  face  with  his  hands,  as  if  to  shut  out  the  light,  and 
sank  into  his  chair. 

As  they  led  him  from  the  room,  the  judge’s  wife  (a  kind-hearted 
woman  who  had  a son),  placed  a bouquet  of  roses  in  his  shackled  hands. 

“Oh !”  he  exclaimed,  burying  his  face  in  the  fragrant  petals,  “how 
sweet,  they  are  like  the  ones  mother  used  to  grow.  I shall  never  pick 
them  again.” 

And  like  the  knell  of  a death-bell,  the  clock  in  the  tower  tolled  the 
hour.  Nine  o’clock. — Ola  D.  Grant  in  Home  Defender. 

TOM’S  TEMPERANCE  LECTURE. 

It  was  a bright  autumn  morning.  The  fall  term  of  St.  Rudolph’s 
School  had  begun  on  Wednesday;  now  it  was  Saturday,  and  the  boys 
had  a long  holiday  before  them.  Out  on  the  playground,  Tom  Haddon 
— a new  boy  who  had  only  arrived  the  night  before  — was  standing  by 
himself,  and  looking  about  with  the  curious  but  sober  eyes  of  a boy 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


109 


who  felt  as  if  he  were  in  a new  world,  and  who  was  as  yet  extremely 
doubtful  as  to  his  chances  for  happiness  in  that  world. 

“Hello,  Tom  Haddon;  is  that  you?”  some  one  called  suddenly. 

Tom’s  gloomy  face  brightened,  and  he  turned  eagerly  toward  a 
group  of  boys  near  him,  who  were  talking  and  laughing  in  the  manner 
so  expressive  at  one  of  good  comradeship  and  much  self-importance, 
that  always  marks  the  old  boys  at  the  beginning  of  a new  school  year. 
Tom  knew  several  of  those  boys;  he  had  met  them  during  the  summer 
vacation,  and  their  greetings  now  were  so  hearty  that  in  a few  minutes 
he  quite  forgot  that  he  was  that  forlorn  creature,  a strange  boy  in  a 
large  school;  and  he  gladly  accepted  an  invitaion  to  join  his  new  friends 
in  a tramp  over  the  hills  to  a village  some  miles  from  St.  Rudolph’s. 
In  high  spirits  they  set  out;  the  hills  were  crossed,  and  early  in  the 
afternoon  they  reached  the  village. 

“Now  for  Cruger’s,”  shouted  several  of  the  boys,  and  they  led  the 
way  to  a saloon  and  boisterously  pushed  open  the  door. 

Tom  held  back.  He  did  not  like  the  appearance  of  the  place. 

“What  are  we  going  in  here  for?”  he  asked. 

“For  a spread,  of  course,”  one  of  the  boys  explained.  “They  cook 
great  dinners  here ; come  on.” 

Tom  was  quite  ready  for  a “spread,”  and  willingly  followed  the 
boys  into  a little  back  room  where  the  saloon  proprietor  assured  them 
they  would  be  undisturbed.  Their  dinner  of  oysters  and  beefsteak  was 
soon  served,  and  thoroughly  enjoyed  by  the  hungry  boys ; then  a dessert 
of  fruit,  cake,  and  pie  was  ordered,  and  when  the  last  crumb  of  the  last 
cake  had  disappeared  and  the  waiter  had  removed  the  dishes  from  the 
table,  Frank  Jones,  their  acknowledged  leader,  said  gayly:  “Now, 
fellows,  before  we  go,  we’ll  have  a loving  cup.” 

“A  loHng  cup;  what’s  that?”  Tom  asked  of  the  boy  nearest  him.. 

“You  needn’t  be  afraid'  of  it,  it  won’t  hurt  you;  it’s  only  beer,”  the 
boy  answered. 

“Beer?  I don’t  want  any,”  and  Tom  pushed  back  his  chair. 

“Sit  still;  you  can’t  go  yet,”  Frank  Jones  said,  and  at  that  moment 
the  waiter  returned  with  the  black  beer  bottles. 

Amid  the  shouts  of  laughter  the  corks  drawn,  and  then  one  of  the 
boys  started  the  song: 

“And  here’s  a hand,  my  trusty  friend. 

And  gie’s  a hand  of  thine. 

And  we’ll  take  a right  guid  willie-wought ” 


110 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


“No,  no,”  Tom  Haddon  shouted,  “this  is  wrong.  I will  not  drink. 
Let  me  go.” 

The  boys  stopped  singing.  “So  you  are  a kill-sport,  are  you?”  one 
of  them  said  scornfully. 

“No,  no,”  Tom  cried,  “but  I can’t  drink.  Let  me  go.” 

The  beer  was  foaming  in  their  glasses,  but  the  boys  left  it  un- 
touched while  they  stared  at  Tom. 

“You  are  a fool,  Tom,”  one  of  them  said.  “What  harm  can  a glass 
of  beer  do  you?” 

“Come,  Tom,”  coaxed  another,  “don’t  make  a row  about  nothing; 
be  a man  and  drink  your  beer.” 

“I  won’t,”  Tom  said  sharply.  “Let  me  go.” 

“We  aren’t  quite  ready  to  let  you  go  yet,”  Frank  Jones  said, 
angrily.  “You  are  a pretty  fellow  to  kill  sport  in  this  way;  and  now 
if  you  won’t  drink,  you  shall  give  us  a temperance  lecture.  If  it  is 
wrong  to  drink  beer,  you  shall  tell  us  why.  Come,  boys,  pay  attention. 
You  will  now  listen  to  an  address  on  temperance  from  the  eloquent 
orator,  Thomas  Haddon.” 

“Hear ! Hear !”  shouted  the  boys,  and  then  one  of  them  called ; 
“Stand  him  up  on  the  table.” 

“Up  with  you,”  cried  two  of  the  strongest  boys,  as  they  seized 
Tom,  and  unable  to  resist,  he  was  forced  to  mount  the  table.  With  a 
crimson  face  and  something  suspiciously  like  tears  in  his  eyes,  he  faced 
his  tormentors. 

“I  can’t,  boys,”  he  faltered.  “I  can’t  talk  to  you.” 

“More  shame  to  you,  then,  for  spoiling  our  fun,”  growled  one  of 
the  boys.  “Come,  you  needn’t  think  we’ll  let  you  off.  If  you  won’t 
drink  beer,  you  shall  give  us  some  good  reason  for  not  drinking  it. 
That’s  only  fair.  Come,  be  quick  and  begin.” 

“Boys,”  he  said,  in  a clear  voice,  “I  will  tell  you  a story  — a true 
story  — a story  that  belongs  to  my  own  life.” 

“All  right,”  said  Frank  Jones,  but  something  in  Tom’s  face  made 
the  other  boys  watch  him  in  silence. 

“Boys,”  Tom  went  on,  in  a tender,  pathetic  voice,  “I  knew  a little 
boy  once  who  had  a beautiful  home.  He  had  a kind  father  and  mother, 
and  he  loved  them  both  so  much  that  he  could  never  tell  which  he 
loved  best.  Boys,  that  little  boy’s  father  had  always  been  a good  man; 
but  once,  when  he  wasn’t  well,  the  doctor  ordered  him  to  drink  beer. 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


111 


and  he  began  to  drink  it,  and ” Tom’s  voice  was  thrilling  in  its 

emphasis  now  — “he  soon  began  to  drink  stronger  things;  and  there 
came  a time  when  that  little  boy’s  home  was  sO'  changed  from  the 
lovely  place  it  once  was,  that  it  seemed  as  if  a fiend  must  live  there. 
That  little  boy  heard  his  father  rave  and  curse  like  a madman  — and 
he  was  mad,  for  rum  had  made  him' so  — and  he  saw  — oh,  boys,  to  his 
dying  hour  he  will  remember  it  — he  saw  his  mother  struck  down  by 
his  drunken  father’s  hand.” 

There  was  a dead  silence  in  that  little  room.  The  beer  had  ceased 
to  foam,  but  not  a boy  had  tasted  it,  or  noticed  it. 

“Boys,”  Tom’s  thrilling  voice  went  on,  “that  little  boy  is  a large 
boy  now,  and  he  is  almost  alone  in  the  world,  for  his  father  and  mother 
are  both  dead,  and  now  he  has  no  home.  Do  you  wonder?”  — and 
no  boy  who  heard  it,  ever  forgot  the  pathos  of  Tom’s  tone  — “do  you 
wonder,  boys,  that,  standing  by  his  mother’s  grave,  that  boy  looked  up 
to  heaven,  and  solemnly  vowed  never,  while  he  lived,  to  touch  or  taste 
the  drink  that  had  made  a madman  of  hie  father,  ruined  his  home,  and 
broke  his  mother’s  heart.” 

Tom  ceased,  and  for  a moment  not  a boy  stirred. 

“You  will  let  me  go  now,”  he  said,  as  he  jumped  down  from  his  high 
place,  and  started  for  the  door;  and  then  with  one  impetuous  rush,  the 
boys  gathered  around  him. 

“Tom,”  Frank  Jones  said,  “you  are  a hero.  Why,  I think  you  aie 
braver  than  a soldier.  I am  proud  of  you,  and  I would  do  just  like 
you  if  I were  in  your  place.”  The  boy  stopped;  a new  thought  had  come 
to  him.  He  looked  around  on  his  companions. 

“Boys,”  he  said  earnestly,  “it  seems  to  me,  that  what  I would  do 
if  I were  in  Tom’s  place,  I had  better  do  now  in  my  own  place.” 

Perhaps  the  head  master  of  St.  Rudolph’s  was  never  in  his  long 
life  more  happily  surprised  than  he  was  that  evening,  when  six  of  his 
oldest  and  most  influential  boys  called  on  him  and  asked  to  sign  the 
temperance  pledge. 

Years  have  passed  since  that  evening,  and  to-day  those  boys  are 
mature  men  and  widely  parted,  but  they  have  never  forgotten  Tom’s 
story,  and  through  all  the  trials  and  temptations  of  manhood,  with 
God’s  help,  they  have  kept  their  pledge. — Mary  Hubbard  Howell  in  The 
Evangelical  Herald. 


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STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


THE  SPECTRAL  INN-KEEPER. 

On  a raw,  disagreeable  afternoon  in  November,  I discovered  myself 
in  the  rather  foolish  act  of  journeying  on  foot  (merely  in  search  of 
amusement  or  to  gratify  a somewhat  morbid  curiosity),  through  a 
certain  wild  and  almost  uninhabited  district  of  Maryland.  With  me, 
at  that  time,  a pedestrian  excursion  of  fifty  or  a hundred  miles  was  a 
trifle ; and,  having  some  knight-errantry  in  my  disposition,  I was  often 
gratified  with  adventures  which  a more  discreet  person  would  have 
been  solicitous  to  avoid.  Proceeding,  therefore,  in  pretty  good  spirits, 
along  a narrow  road,  through  the  dense  pine  woods,  I availed  myself 
of  the  perfect  solitude  of  the  place,  and  entertained  myself  by  reciting 
choice  passages  from  the  Roman  classics,  being  answered,  at  intervals, 
by  echoes  which  certainly  never  spoke  Latin  before.  Sometimes  too, 
the  driving  autumnal  winds  whistled  and  hissed  so  lifelike  among  the 
tops  of  the  spiry  pines,  that  I paused  and  looked  around,  apprehensive 
that  my  peripatetic  recitations  were  overheard  by  more  auditors  than  I 
wished  for.  At  length,  while  repeating  a portion  of  Virgil’s  Lib.  vi., 
with  great  fervor,  methought  I heard  the  words : 

“A  Dutchman,  I declare !” 

“That,”  thought  I,  coming  to  a full  stop,  “must  be  the  drollest  kind 
of  an  echo ; or,  if  it  be  the  wind,  I must  say  it  speaks  more  intelligibL 
than  ever  I heard  a breeze  discourse  before.” 

“Come  here,  mister,  and  get  something  to  drink.  Can  you  fushtay 
that?” 

“Who  are  you,  what  are  you,  and  where  are  you?”  said  I,  in  some 
trepidation. 

“Why,  that’s  pretty  good  English,  and  yet  I could  have  sworn  you 
were  speaking  Dutch  this  minute.” 

I now  ascertained  that  the  voice  proceeded  from  a clump  of  chin- 
quapin bushes,  and,  approaching,  a little  nearer,  I saw  an  elderly  man, 
in  rustic  costume,  sitting  on  the  ground,  with  a plate  containing  some 
edibles  in  his  lap,  and  a flask  containing,  as  I doubt  not,  something 
drinkable,  standing  by  his  side.  An  ax  lay  near  him,  and  a quantity  of 
chips  and  branches  of  trees  strewed  about,  showed  him  to  be  a wood- 
cutter. 

“What  countryman  are  you?”  said  he. 

“A  native  of  this  very  soil ; nothing  else,  I assure  you,”  answered  1. 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


113 


“Well,  mister,  I don’t  think  there’s  much  good  in  a man  that  talks 
to  himself,  especially  if  he  talks  in  a lingo  that  no  Christian  can  under- 
stand. May  be  you’re  a fortune-teller?” 

“No,  nothing  of  the  kind.  I felt  lonesome,  and  was  trying  to  amuse 
myself,  that’s  all.” 

“Ah!  you’re  cunning.  ‘Talk  to  yourself,  and  talk  to  Old  Scratch!’ 
You’ve  heard  that  old  proverb?  But  come,  whatever  you  are,  take  a 
pull  at  this  before  you  go  any  further.” 

“No;  thank  you.  I seldom  drink  anything  stronger  than  water.” 

“Well,  that  looks  suspicious,  too;  but  I always  try  to  put  the  best 
construction  on  everything.  What  can  I do  for  you?” 

“How  far  to  the  nearest  tavern?” 

“None  this  side  of  Choptank  River,  and  that’s  five  miles  off,  at  least. 
Yes,  there  is  one ” 

“Well,  one’s  enough  at  present.  I’m  easily  accommodated.” 

“Ay,  but  nobody  lives  there.  The  house  has  not  been  occupied  for 
six  years.  It’s  haunted  !” 

“Oh !”  said  I,  smiling  perhaps  a little  incredulously. 

“It  is  true,  as  sure  as  I live !”  said  the  woodman,  with  something 
like  a shudder.  “I  never  had  much  notion  of  ghosts,  but  I guess 
seeing’s  believing!” 

“So  you’ve  seen  a ghost  there,  eh?”  I inquired. 

“Ay,  just  as  plainly  as  I see  you.  I have  seen  it  walking  upstairs, 
before  the  windows,  and  stopping  sometimes  to  look  out.” 

“Very  natural.  But  what  was  it  like?” 

“An  old  man,  with  a blue  cloth  cap  and  a green  baize  jacket.” 

“Oh ! then,  you  saw  the  ghosts  of  a blue  cloth  cap  and  a green 
baize  jacket  likewise?” 

“I  saw  just  what  I tell  you,  and  hundreds  of  others  have  seen 
the  same.” 

“But  why  does  this  spirit  choose  to  walk  about  in  such  unfashion- 
able attire?”  asked  I. 

“He  can’t  rest  in  his  grave,”  said  the  woodman,  with  a groan. 
“He’s  murdered  his  own  brother  in  the  bar-room  of  that  very  tavern. 
There  is  blood  on  the  floor  to  this'  day.” 

“You  have  seen  that?” 

“No;  I never  ventured  inside  of  the  building;  but  my  wife  went 


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STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


there  to  hunt  for  one  of  our  little  children  when  it  was  lost,  and  she 
saw  it.” 

“Well,”  said  I,  after  a pause,  “I  must  either  pass  the  night  at 
this  haunted  hotel  or  out  of  doors  ; and  it  strikes  me  that,  on  such  an 
airy  night  as  this,  the  hotel,  with  all  its  horrors,  is  to  be  preferred. 
Woodman,  I forgive  your  suspicions;  but  do  you  think  I would  venture 
on  such  a lodging-place  if  I hadn’t  a clear  conscience?” 

“And  why  not?  If  you  deal  with  Old  Scratch,  you  are  not  afraid 
to  meet  with  him,  I suppose.  But  maybe  I am  too  hard  on  you ; here, 
take  this  flask,  you  might  want  it.  What  time  will  you  be  back  this 
way,  if ” 

“If  I escape  the  horrors  of  this  fearful  night,”  replied  I,  guessing 
at  his  meaning.  “I  will  be  back  within  three  days.” 

“Well,  I shall  be  cutting  wood,  hereabouts;  you  will  see  me  and 
may  return  my  flask;  use  what’s  in  it,  if  you  like.  But  I shall  want  to 
hear  what  happened  to  you.” 

“Oh ! certainly,  if  I am  permitted  to  tell.” 

I took  l&ave  of  my  new  acquaintance,  having  first  accepted  the 
flask  (for  I had  no  conscientious  scruples  at  that  time),  and,  not  with- 
out some  anxious  feelings  it  must  be  acknowledged,  I resumed  my  walk. 
The  gloom  and  dreariness  of  the  pine  forest  seemed  to  increase  from 
that  moment,  for  my  thoughts  began  to  be  tinged  with  the  supernatural ; 
and  it  is  well  known  what  effect  the  complextion  of  one’s  meditation  has 
on  external  objects.  By  the  time.  I had  arrived  at  the-  deserted  inn, 
therefore,  I was  prepared  to  see  a whole  regiment  of  ghosts  in  the 
uniform  of  blue  caps  and  green  jackets.  It  is  well  enough  to  laugh 
at  such  fancies  sometimes ; but  who  is  entirely  free  from  them  in  all 
circumstances?  I had  been  traveling  all  day  in  a dreary  and  desolate 
region,  my  imagination  had  been  rambling  among  poetical  descriptions 
well  calculated  to  excite  my  superstitious  sensibilities.  I had,  without 
observing  it  at  the  time,  been  infected  with  the  ghostly  horrors  of  the 
wood-cutter,  and  now  that  I had  arrived  at  the  scene  of  spectral  resort. 
I felt  that,  if  there  were  any  place  in  the  world  where  ghosts  might  be 
supposed  to  congregate,  this  was  the  very  spot. 

The  old  inn  was  completely  imbedded  in  the  forest ; there  was  a 
small  space  in  the  rear  which  had  been  cleared,  probably  for  a garden, 
but  the  intention  had  never  been  carried  out,  and  the  spot  was  thickly 
studded  with  the  stumps  of  trees  blackened  b)’’  fire,  in  an  inefliectual 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


115 


attempt  to  burn  them  to  the  ground.  They  looked,  in  the  very  dim 
twilight,  like  so  many  elfish  figures,  in  every  fantastic  attitude,  welcom- 
ing my  arrival.  The  inn  itself  was  built  of  irregular  gray  stones,  many 
of  which  had  fallen  from  their  places,  causing  frightful  gaps  and  dis- 
figurations on  the  exterior  surface  of  the  walls.  The  glass  of  the  win- 
dows had  been  entirely  demolished,  and  the  greater  part  of  the  sashes 
and  window-frames  had  crumbled  away  and  fallen  to  the  ground,  ming- 
ling with  a mass'  of  rubbis'h,  consisting  of  stones,  plaster,  and  decayed 
wood.  Part  of  the  sign  still  remained  — the  device  was,  or  had  been, 
a white  horse;  the  post  and  frame  which  supported  it  were  placed  on 
the  opposite  side  of  the  road.  The  sign  itself,  as  it  swung  on  its  rusty 
staples,  produced  a sound  that  might  have  been  mistaken  for  the  shriek 
of  a tortured  ghost,  or  the  cry  of  some  human  being  in  mortal  agony. 

But  the  night  was  now  down  upon  me,  and  the  wind  had  become 
sufficiently  piercing  to  make  any  shelter  desirable ; therefore,  I made 
my  way,  with  some  difficulty,  through  the  rubbish  and  reached  the 
door.  It  was  not  fastened  in  any  way,  yet  it  was  opened  with  some 
difficulty,  on  account  of  its  great  weight  and  the  very  rusty  condition 
of  its  hinges.  I found  myself  in  the  bar-room,  the  scene  of  the  murder. 
I stood  on  the  floor,  which  I had  been  told,  was  incrusted  with  blood; 
but  the  room  was  too  dark  to  admit  of  an  examination,  if  I had  been 
disposed  to  make  one.  I passed  hurriedly  through  the  apartment  and 
ascended  the  stairs ; opening  another  door  at  the  head  of  the  staircase, 
I entered  a room  that  was  dimly  lighted  by  a window  in  the  rear  of  the 
building.  A very  young  moon  shed  a feeble  ray  into  this  chamber, 
showing  all  the  furniture  it  contained,  namely,  an  old  table  and  chair 
in  one  corner.  Fatigued  by  my  long  walk,  I threw  myself  into  the  chair, 
and  gazed  around  to  assure  myself  that  I was  the  sole  occupant  of  the 
premises.  Tlie  moonlight  was  sufficient  to  satisfy  me  that  I was  alone. 
I felt  relieved,  and,  opening  my  valise,  I took  out  some  portable  articles 
of  refection,  prudently  stored  away  for  certain  emergencies  to  which 
travelers  are  liable.  I arranged  my  repast  on  the  table,  and  finally  pro- 
duced the  wood-cutter’s  flask,  which  I held  up  to  the  moonbeam  to  ascer- 
tain the  color,  if  possible,  and  thus  estimate  the  quality  of  the  contents. 
At  that  moment,  a deep  groan,  or  rather  a howl  of  anguish,  invaded  my 
ears.  I looked  toward  the  door  which  I had  shut  after  me,  and  found  it 
was  now  open!  More  than  that,  an  indistinct  figure  appeared  in  the 
aperture. 


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STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


If,  like  Lord  Nelson,  I had  “never  known  fear,”  I might  have  had 
the  honor  of  an  introduction  to  him  at  that  moment;  for,  although  it 
would  be  easy  enough,  at  this  time  to  pretend  that  I received  my 
spectral  visitor  (or  rather  my  host,  for  I was  really  an  intruder  on  his 
quarters),  with  the  most  intrepid  cordiality,  I will  be  honest  enough 
to  confess  that  my  ruling  passion,  at  that  moment,  was  unmitigated 
terror.  The  figure  advanced ; I sat  like  a sculptured  image  of  Time  with 
the  hour-glass  in  his  hand  (supposing  the  hour-glass  to  be  represented 
by  the  flask  of  Geneva),  and  I do  not  believe  that  fright  left  me  enough 
control  over  my  muscles  to  effect  a wink,  much  less  to  move  hand  or 
foot  in  an  attempt  at  resistance  or  escape.  The  phantom  stood  before 
me ; it  extended  a hand  ;I  was  too  much  alarmed,  at  first,  to  guess  what 
this  gesture  signified ; but  recovering  myself  a little,  I understood  that 
the  ghost  wished  to  obtain  possession  of  the  flask.  I surrendered  it 
promptly ; but  instead  of  raising  the  vessel  to  its  lips,  as  I expected,  the 
spectre,  uttering  a wild  execration,  dashed  the  bottle  to  pieces  against 
the  floor. 

The  visionary  being  then  turned  and  moved  toward  the  door,  it 
paused  half-way,  and  faced  me  again.  The  faint  moonbeam  fell  on  the 
countenance;  it  was  deadly  pale,  but  seemed  to  express  more  sorrow 
than  anger.  I was  encouraged ; it  beckoned  me  to  follow,  and  I obeyed. 
We  descended  the  steps,  I keeping  at  a very  respectful  distance,  you 
may  believe.  The  staircase  ended  in  the  bar-room,  and  there  we  stopped. 
My  terrible  guide  retired  to  a dark  corner,  where  he  became  invisible. 
I gazed  steadfastly  at  the  point  where  he  disappeared ; presently  I 
observed  a small  blue  flame,  which  gradually  enlarged  and  became  more 
ruddy,  till  I was  enabled  to  see  the  spectre  again.  It  now  held  in  its 
hand  a lighted  lamp,  stood  before  the  lattice-work  where  the  liquors  had 
formerly  been  deposited,  and,  with  a mournful  but  expressive  gesture, 
invited  me  to  approach.  I drew  near,  and  casting  my  eyes  on  the  floor, 
in  obedience  to  a direction  from  the  spectral  finger,  I saw  a dark  stain 
upon  the  boards. 

“That  is  the  blood  of  my  brother!” 

When  the  wretched  being  had  pronounced  these  words,  in  a tone 
that  accorded  well  with  his  ghostly  character,  he  wrung  his  hands  and 
uttered  a howl  like  that  which  had  so  much  alarmed  me  in  the  room 
above.  He  then  glided  into  the  interior  of  the  bar,  and  returned  with 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


117 


a long  knife,  the  rusty  blade  of  which  he  displayed  in  the  lamplight,  as 
he  said; 

“With  this  was  the  murder  committed !” 

I had  no  inclination  to  make  inquiries ; but,  after  a silence  of  some 
moments,  interrupted  only  by  another  maniac  howl,  he  proceeded: 

“Yes;  with  this  knife  I murdered  him,  my  young  brother.  He  was 
only  nineteen.  He  never  wronged  me.  We  kept  this  tavern  in  partner- 
ship ; I persuaded  him  to  join  me  in  the  business,  and  I murdered  him ; 
this  is  his  blood.  I encouraged  him  to  drink ; that  caused  all  the  trouble. 
It  was  in  a drunken  quarrel  that  I killed  him.  We  were  both  intoxicated ; 
he  struck  me,  and  I stabbed  him  with  this  knife.  Do  you  believe  that 
the  dead  can  come  back?” 

I answered  as  I believed  — that  such  a thing  was  possible. 

“Then,  why  have  I never  seen  him?  I,  his  murderer!  Oh!  how  I 
wished  to  see  him.  I have  prayed  to  see  him ; but  he  will  not  come.  I 
have  watched  whole  nights  in  this  room.  Sometimes,  when  the  wind 
moans  through  the  old  building  as  it  does  now,  I think  I hear  him,  just 
as  he  moaned  when  he  was  dying.” 

Turning  to  me  suddenly,  with  an  altered  expression  of  countenance, 
he  asked,  “What  brought  you  here?” 

“I  was  benighted  on  the  road;  and  could  find  no  other  shelter.” 

“You  will  not  betray  me?” 

Without  knowing  exactly  what  I promised,  I answered  that  I 
would  not. 

“I  am  supposed  to  be  dead  — drowned  in  the  Choptank,”  said  the 
fratricide.  “The  neighbors,  when  they  happen  to  see  me,  take  me  for 
a spirit.  I did  try  to  drown,  myself,  soon  after  the  murder  was  com- 
mitted ; but  the  pure  water  would  not  receive  me  into  its  bosom ; it 
threw  me  ashore,  five  miles  below.  I saw  it  was  not  my  fate  to  die  at 
that  time.  I was  not  permitted  to  go  to  my  brother,  so  I returned  to 
this  place,  hoping  to  see  his  ghost  and  beg  forgiveness.  An  old  friend 
who  is  acquainted  with  my  secret,  supplies  me  with  breadq  nothing  but 
bread  and  water  has  entered  these  lips  for  the  last  three  years.  I have 
sworn  to  touch  no  other  food  during  the  remainder  of  my  life.  Oh ! 
that  I had  never  touched  any  other.” 

He  seized  me  by  the  arm.  I glanced  apprehensively  at  the  fatal 
instrument  which  he  still  held  in  his  other  hand ; for  the  horrid  deed 
he  had  penetrated,  and  the  wildness  of  his  present  behavior,  naturally 


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STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


awakened  some  anxiety  for  my  personal  safety;  but  another  glance  at 
the  old  man’s  grief-stricken  countenance  convinced  me  that  there  was 
nothing  to  dread.  Gazing  at  me  for  a few  moments  in  silence,  he  said 
at  last: 

"Do  you  pity  me?” 

“I  do  indeed,  from  my  very  soul,”  answered  I. 

“Would  you  make  some  sacrifice  to  lessen  my  misery?” 

“I  would ; anything  in  reason.” 

“Then  give  me  the  consolation  of  believing  that  I have  induced  one 
human  being  to  abandon  the  use  of  that  accursed  beverage  which  I 
prevented  you  from  taking  this  evening.  Swear  that  you  will  never 
touch  it  again.” 

“Most  willingly,”  said  I ; and  then,  with  the  impressive  evidence  of 
the  horrors  of  intemperance  before  me,  with  the  blood  of  one  of  its 
victims  under  my  feet,  and  in  the  presence  of  a wretch  who  was  even 
then  suffering  the  unspeakable  agonies  it  had  inflicted,  I made  my  first 
vow  of  total  abstinence.  Need  I add,  reader,  that  it  has  been  religiously 
kept?  Who  could  forget  the  solemn  admonitions  of  such  a scene,  and 
under  such  circumstances? 

Soon  after  I stretched  myself  on  a bench  which  remained  in  the 
bar-room,  and  would  have  slept;  but  the  exciting  events  of  the  evening, 
the  mournful  sound  of  the  wind  that  rushed  through  the  dismantled 
building,  and  especially  the  continued  walking  to  and  fro  of  the  penitent- 
criminal,  his  lamentations,  self-reproaches,  and  cries  of  anguish,  banished 
slumber  from  my  uneasy  couch.  As  soon  as  the  morning  dawned,  I 
prepared  for  my  day’s  journey,  glad  to  escape  from  the  contemplation  of 
so  much  wretchedness.  On  taking  leave  of  my  unfortunate  host,  I 
endeavored  to  offer  some  consolation,  but  soon  desisted,  convinced  that 
his  was  a sorrow  which  no  human  comforter  could  have  alleviated.  He 
wrung  my  hand  as  we  parted,  and  exclaimed,  “Remember  your  oath !” 

The  benefits  of  the  terrible  lesson  I had  received  that  night  were 
not  confined  to  myself.  A few  days  later,  on  my  return  through  the 
pine  forest,  I encountered  my  friend,  the  wood-cutter.  With  a coun- 
tenance full  of  pallid  expectation,  he  heard  my  narrative.  I related  ali 
the  circumstances  of  the  frightful  interview  in  the  upper  chamber,  dwelt 
with  emphasis  on  the  destruction  of  the  flask  of  gin,  told  him  I had 
been  summoned  to  the  scene  of  the  murder,  and  repeated  the  confession 
there  made ; but  I was  careful  not  to  reveal  the  secret  which  had  been 


' STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


119 


confided  to  my  keeping.  Of  course,  I was  obliged  to  leave  the  wood- 
man under  the  impression  that  the  being  I had  seen  and  conversed  with 
was  really  a ghost.  Finally,  I gave  my  shivering  auditor  an  account 
of  the  vow  which  I had  been  required  to  make;  and  then  I paused, 
to  observe  the  effect  of  the  communication.  He  was  evidently  much 
troubled  at  this  part  of  my  story.  I advised  him  to  enter  into  a similar 
obligation,  and  he  was  easily  persuaded  to  do  so. 

He  kept  the  pledge,  as  I subsequently  found ; for,  several  years  after, 
I saw  this  very  man  emerge  from  the  hold  of  a wood-boat  at  Baltimore. 
He  recognized  me,  and  gave  me  to  understand  that  things  had  gone 
prosperously  with  him  since  our  last  meeting.  He  was  now  the  owner 
of  several  vessels,  and  was  driving  a lucrative  business  in  the  wood 
trade.  All  this  good  fortune  he  attributed  to  his  temperance  engagement 
in  the  pine  forest.  Observing  that  I smiled  m)^steriously,  he  proceeded 
to  inform  me  that  the  whole  secret  was  out.  The  dead  body  of  the 
inn-keeper  had  been  found  at  the  door  of  his-  dreary  habitation,  and 
that  circumstance  had  quieted  the  superstitious  fears  of  the  neighbor- 
hood, by  convincing  the  people  that  the  cause  of  their  terror  was  sub- 
stantial, and  not  merely  visionary. 

But,  notwithstanding  the  woodman  had  become  temperate  under 
the  influence  of  supernatural  dread,  he  had  sufficiently  realized  the 
blessings  of  sobriety  to  make  him  secure  against  any  possibility  of  a 
relapse  — a proof  that  superstition  itself  may  occasionally  effect  some 
good  purpose. — Tract  by  L.  A.  Wilmer. 

LIQUOR’S  DEADLY  WORK. 

One  day  Mr.  M.  Morrill’s  attention  was  called  to  a little,  pale,  thin 
bootblack  who  had  a bunch  of  bluebells  in  his  buttonhole.  The  gen- 
tleman let  the  boy  black  his  boots,  then  balancing  a quarter  on  his 
finger,  said : ■ ■ 

“Here  is  ten  cents  for  the  shine  and  fifteen  cents  for  the  flowers," 
pointing  to  the  bluebells.  The  lad  put  his  small  hand  over  the  flowers. 

“No,  sir;  I can’t  sell  them;  if  I were  starving  I wouldn’t  sell  a 
bluebell.” 

“And  why  not,  little  man?” 

The  lad  looked  at  Mr.  Morrill  so  piteously  that  he  was  almost  sorry 
he  had  asked  him.  He  put  his  hand  on  the  boy’s  head,  and  said; 


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STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


“Excuse  me  for  asking;  you  need  not  tell  me  unless  you  wish,  and 
you  can  keep  the  quarter  besides.” 

“I  like  you  and  I’ll  tell  you.  Just  a year  ago  this  month,  and  it 
has  been  such  a long  year,  I thought  the  bluebells  never  would  come,” 
and  then  he  stopped  and  put  his  hand  over  his  eyes,  as  if  to  shut 
out  some  horrible  sight.  Presently  he  took  down  his  hand,  and  said 
abruptly : 

“My  father  was  a drunkard.  We  once  owned  some  property,  I’ve 
heard  mother  say,  but  that  was  before  I was  born.  We  got  so  poor, 
mother  had  to  go  out  and  wash  to  get  food  for  Bess  and  me.  We 
lived  in  a little  log  house,  a quarter  of  a mile  from  town. 

“One  Friday  morning  there  was  only  a plate  of  cornmeal  and  about 
two  spoonfuls  of  molasses. 

“Mother  baked  the  meal  into  bread,  and  told  me  to  feed  the  baby 
when  she  awoke,  and  to  keep  a sharp  lookout  for  father,  while  she 
was  away  washing  that  day.  She  kissed  me  at  the  door.  ‘Be  a good 
boy,  Willie,  and  take  care  of  little  sister,’  she  said. 

“Bessie  slept  a long  time,  and  I passed  the  time  sitting  by  her  and 
going  to  the  door  to  watch  for  father.  When  she  woke  up,  she  said, 
‘Baby  is  so  hungry;  Willie  get  something  to  eat.’  ‘Get  up,  Bessie,  and 
let  me  dress  you,  and  then  we  will  have  some  breakfast.’  I had  not 
eaten  a mouthful,  nor  had  mother  before  leaving  home,  and  I was  dread- 
ful hungry.  She  got  up  and  I dressed,  washed  and  combed  her,  and 
when  we  sat  down  to  the  table,  Bessie  just  dropped  her  curly  head  right 
down  on  the  table  and  sobbed  out,  ‘O,  Willie,  I am  so  tired  of  cornbread 
and  molasses;  I can’t  eat  it;  I want  some  meat  and  butter.’ 

“ ‘Don’t  cry,  baby,’  I said,  stroking  her  curls,  ‘mother  will  bring 
home  something  to-night.’ 

“ ‘But  it  is  so  long  to  wait.’ 

“ ‘Try  to  eat,’  I said,  and  I put  a spoonful  of  molasses  on  her 
plate,  and  she  did  try,  but  she  only  swallowed  a few  mouthfuls  and 
then  left  the  table.  I ate  a small  piece  of  dry  bread;  I thought  she 
would  eat  the  molasses,  so  I did  not  touch  it.  All  day  she  kept  saying 
she  was  hungry,  but  refused  to  eat.  It  was  a long  day  to  us  both. 

“Father  had  come  home,  and  it  was  nearly  dark;  we  were  both 
sitting  on  the  doorstep.  Bessie  had  laid  her  head  against  my  arm  and 
began  to  cry,  ‘I’m  so  hungry,  Willie ; mother  stays  so  late  to-night.’ 

“ ‘Don’t  cry,  baby,  mother  will  soon  be  home.’  ‘Of  course  she 


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121 


will!’  exclaimed  George  Anderson;  he  lived  a mile  beyond  us,  and  as 
he  spoke,  he  tossed  a bunch  of  bluebells  into  Bessie’s  lap. 

“ ‘Oh,  how  pretty !’  she  exclaimed,  while  the  tears  dropped  from  her 
sweet  blue  eyes  on  the  pretty  bluebells. 

“ ‘Come,  Bessie,’  I said,  ‘let  me  fasten  them  among  your  curls.’  She 
stood  upon  the  doorstep  with  her  face  toward  the  house.  I stood  behind 
her  and  tied  the  bluebells  in  her  golden  curls.  I had  just  fastened  the 
last  one,  when  some  one  jerked  me  off  the  step.  It  was  father;  he  was 
almost  crazy  with  drink. 

“He  caught  Bessie  and  said,  ‘You  have  been  crying;  what  did 
Willie  do  to  you?’ 

“She  was  so  white  and  scared  that  I thought  she  would  faint. 
‘Willie  didn’t  do  anything,’  she  gasped  out. 

“Father  let  her  go  and  grasped  me;  he  commenced  to  shake  me 
awful.  ‘You  rascal,  what  did  you  do  to  Bessie?  Tell  me,  or  I’ll  shake 
the  life  out  of  you.’ 

“He  shook  me  so  I could  not  answer.  Then  little  Bessie  caught 
him  by  the  arm.  ‘Please,  father,  don’t  hurt  Willie ; I was  so  hungry 
it  made  me  cry.’ 

“He  looked  at  the  table  and  saw  the  bread  and  molasses.  ‘You 
little  white-faced  liar,  you  are  not  hungry ; look  at  the  table ; there  is 
plenty  to  eat,  and  good  enough  for  such  a brat  as  you,’  and  he  shook 
her  roughly. 

“She  began  to  cry,  and  I tried  to  put  my  arms  around  her,  but 
father  pushed  me  away.  ‘If  you  can’t  eat  anything,  I can  give  yor 
something  to  drink,’  and  started  down  the  path  that  led  to  the  pond. 

“Bessie  hushed  crying,  but  she  looked  awful  scared.  ‘I’ll  give  you 
something  to  drink,’  he  said,  when  he  reached  the  edge  of  the  water,  and 
I followed,  scarcely  knowing  what  I was  doing,  I was  so  frightened. 

“He  waded  in  about  knee  deep,  then  took  Bessie  and  put  her  little 
curly  head  down  under  the  water.  She  threw  up  her  little  white  hands 
and  cried  out,  ‘Oh,  Willie,  take  baby!’  just  as  the  curly  head  went  down. 

“I  waded  around  father  and  tried  with  all  my  strength  to  raise  her 
little  head  out  of  the  water,  but  father  held  it  down.  I begged  father 
to  take  her  out,  but  he  would  not  listen.  She  threw  up  her  hands  wildlv, 
there  was  a gurgling  sound,  then  all  was  still.  It  seemed  hours  to  me, 
but  father  at  last  lifted  up  Bessie’s  white,  dripping  face.  I called  her 
name  wildly,  but  her  blue  lips  didn’t  move ; she  was  dead. 


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STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


“Father  carried  her  and  laid  her  down  on  the  green  grass.  T guess 
she  won’t  get  hungry  for  awhile,’  he  said. 

“I  was  so  stunned  I never  moved  nor  spoke,  until  I saw  the  blue- 
bells that  I had  twined  in  Bessie’s  hair,  floating  out  on  the  water.  I 
could  not  bear  to  see  them  drift  away,  so  I waded  out  after  them.  The 
water  was  deep,  and  on  I went.  It  was  up  to  my  arm-pits,  now  over  my 
shoulder,  still  the  bluebells  were  just  beyond  my  reach,  but  I must  have 
them.  The  water  touched  my  chin^,  another  step  and  I caught  them,  and 
just  as  I did  I heard  mother  call:  ‘Willie!  oh  Willie!  where  are  you?’ 

“1  looked  for  father.  He  was  seated  on  the  ground  by  Bessie. 
‘Willie!  oh  Willie!’  came  mother’s  voice  again.’ 

“I  was  out  of  the  water  now,  but  so  weak  I could  scarcely  stand. 
‘Bessie!  oh  Bessie!’  I called,  ‘Here,  mother,  at  the  pond.’ 

“Father  gave  one  mad  leap  into  the  water  — he  plunged  in  face 
down.  I was  so  terrified  I did  not  know  what  to  do.  I heard  mother 
coming.  I trembled  so  I could  not  walk,  so  I crawled  up  to  Bessie, 
and  took  father’s  straw  hat,  put  it  over  Bessie’s  dead  face  to  keep 
mother  from  seeing  it. 

“In  a moment  she  came  in  sight.  She  saw  I was  dripping  with 
water.  ‘Willie,  Willie,  what  is  the  matter?’  I could  not  speak. 

“She  lifted  the  hat  from  Bessie’s  face.  She  stood  for  a moment 
as  if  turned  to  stone.  ‘Tell  me  how  it  happened,  Willie;  tell  me  quick!’ 
Then  I found  voice  and  told  her  everything.  She  heard  me  through 
without  a word,  but  when  I had  finished,  stood  with  clasped  hands 
over  Bessie  and  shrieked  such  unearthly  cries  that  soon  the  neighbor- 
hood flocked  to  the  spot. 

“Father  had  drowned  himself,  his  body  was  taken  from  under  the 
beautiful  water  and  buried  in  the  cemetery  along  side  of  Bessie.  Mother 
was  a raving  maniac.  I put  the  bluebells  in  a little  box  and  hung  them 
around  my  neck.  After  the  funeral,  I lay  in  the  hospital,  sick  for 
weeks  with  brain  fever,  but  when  I came  to  myself,  the  box  was  still 
around  my  neck;  here  it  is”  — and  he  drew  from  his  bosom  a small  box 
containing  a few  withered  leaves. 

“They  speak  of  sweet  baby  Bessie,”  he  said,  as  he  closed^  the  box 
and  slipped  it  back  under  his  shirt  bosom. 

Then  he  looked  Mr.  Morrill  straight  in  the  eyes,  and  said : 

“Please,  mister,  don’t  ever  vote  for  whiskey.  It  killed  niy  father 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


123 


— 

.1  and  dear  little  baby  Bessie,  and  it  locked  mother  up  in  the  madhouse. 
\ Please  don’t  vote  for  rum,” — Tract. 

THE  DRIVER’S  STORY. 

■.;r  . 

In  a lonely  spot  far  up  on  the  hillside  stands  a farmhouse  — a plain, 
W unpainted  building  that  bears  the  marks  of  many  storms.  The  windows 
are  boarded  up.  The  door  stands  partly  open,  hanging  on  one  hinge 
I and  creaking  dismally  in  the  wind.  Everything  in  the  place  shows  signs 
of  neglect  and  decay.  The  picket  fence  surrounding  the  house  has 
[I  partly  fallen,  and  the  once  well-kept  garden,  filled  with  old-fashioned 
flowers,  is  a mass  of  weeds  and  bushes.  A short  distance  from  the  house, 
[ a tall  oak  tree  spreads  its  gnarled  branches  heavenward.  Under  it  are 
two  mounds,  marked  only  by  two  simple  crosses. 

I asked  my  driver,  a man  whom  I had  hired  to  carry  me  across  the 
^ country,  how  anyone  could  choose  such  a lonelyl  resting  place.  He 
[v  hesitated  a moment,  and  then  related  the  following  story  in  a voice  that 
p trembled  a little  in  spite  of  his  visible  efforts  at  self-control; 

^ “You  ask  about  those  two  graves,  and  well  you  may  wonder  how 
ever  they  came  to  be  in  such  a God-forsaken  place.  You  see  yonder 
s ':  farm  house?  Well,  in  that  house  a newly  wed  couple  started  house- 
's keeping,  With  hearts  beating  high  with  youth  and  happiness  they 
^ toiled  to  furnish  it  and  make  it  comfortable,  and  even  pretty,  in  a rude 
sort  of  way,  for  in  those  days  people  couldn’t  have  the  fancy  fixin’s  that 
|;>  ' can  almost  be  had  for  the  askin’  now  in  your  big  city  stores. 

“Finally,  to  crown  their  happiness,  a son  was  added  to  the  family. 

“As  the  days  and  years  rolled  on,  he  developed  into  a beautiful  boy, 
with  fair  complexion,  blue  eyes  and  wavy  golden  hair.  As  many  fond, 
I foolish  parents  do  nowadays,  they  humored  his  every  wish.  He  was  a 
- slender  boy,  who  cared  more  for  books  than  for  outdoor  sports.  When 
he  reached  the  age  of  sixteen,  his  parents  decided  he  must  have  a college 
i education,  so  his  father  gave  up  his  only  hired  man  and  cheerfully  took 
: up  his  double  burden  of  labor,  aided  by  the  mother,  whose  hair  was 
I prematurely  gray  with  constant  work  and  care. 

“One  year,  two  years,  three  years  of  increasing  toil  and  sacrifice 
went  by  at  the  cottage  on  the  hill.  Every  thought,  every  heartbeat  was 
for  the  son,  and  often,  in  the  evening,  when  the  long  day’s  work  was 
■ done,  the  couple  would  sit  hand  in  hand  and  talk  of  the  happy  days 


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STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


when  their  son  would  be  at  home,  when  they  could  rest  on  his  loving 
support. 

“Four  years,  five  years,  and  now  the  day  was  approaching  when  he 
was  to  be  graduated.  They  had  saved  and  sacrificed  that  they  might 
be  able  to  see  him  graduate.  The  day  before  the  college  exercises  were 
held,  they  started  for  the  city,  picturing  their  son’s  surprise  and  delight 
at  seeing  them,  the  mother  in  a flutter  of  pride  and  joy,  looking  almost 
pretty  in  spite  of  bent  form  and  old-fashioned  gown ; the  father,  his 
heart  beating  high  with  happiness  that  his  son  had  reached  the  top  of 
the  ladder  at  last. 

“Arriving  in  the  evening,  they  walked  up  through  the  streets 
toward  the  college.  Just  as  they  passed  a brightly-lighted  saloon  the 
door  burst  open  and  out  came  a crowd  of  drunken  college  boys.  One 
jostled  roughly  against  the  other,  and  the  foremost  was  tripped  and 
staggered  into  the  street,  falling  in  front  of  an  approaching  car.  In  an 
.instant  it  was  over;  the  crushed,  mangled  form  lay  motionless.  The 
couple  rushed  with  the  crowd  to  the  scene,  when  the  father  shrieked, 
‘My  God!  it’s  Louis!’  and  fell  lifeless  across  the  body  of  his  boy. 

“The  bodies  were  tenderly  taken  to  the  farm  and  buried  under  the 
oak  tree.  The  mother  is  this  day  a raving  maniac,  in  an  insane  asylum.” 

The  narrator  paused,  and,  brushing  his  rough  hand  across  his  eyes, 
huskily  added,  “That  man  was  my  brother,  that  ruined  home  was  my 
brother’s,  and  that  family  my  brother’s  family.  Do  you  wonder.  Miss, 
that  I hate  the  accursed  saloon  with  undying  hatred?” 

I went  on  to  X , where  I delivered  my  lecture,  but  that  man’s 

story  remains  as  vividly  in  my  mind  as  on  the  day  it  was  told  me.  O 
boys,  shun  the  saloon!  Use  all  your  strength  to  fight  back  this  evil. 
Then  when  the  good  pure  manly  boys  reach  manhood,  then  will  the  foul 
stain  of  intemperance  be  wiped  from  our  country. — National  Advocate. 

A SCRAP  OF  BROWN  PAPER. 

Looking  at  the  pretty  farmhouse  of  the  Reeds,  you  would  have 
said  that  there  could  not  be  any  trouble  in  such  a delightful  spot. 
It  stood  on  a knoll.  Not  far  away  were  several  maples  and  tall  pines. 
There  was  a pleasant  piazza,  and  vines  twined  around  it.  Back  of  the 
house  and  on  either  side  stretched  a fine,  fertile  farm.  In  and  out  of 
the  doors  of  this  cottage  frolicked  all  day  long  the  three  Reed  boys. 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


125 


Their  names  were  DeWitt,  James  and  Warren,  and  there  were  no 
brighter,  merrier  children  to  be  found. 

Yet  a terrible  shadow  hung  over  this  beautiful  home,  and  on  a 
certain  Thanksgiving  morning,  about  twenty  years  ago,  Mrs.  Reed,  as 
she  moved  about  her  neat  kitchen,  preparing  the  Thanksgiving  dinner, 
was  weeping.  She  did  not  mean  that  anybody  should  see  how  badly 
she  felt;  but  suddenly  DeWitt,  who  was  ten  years  old  and  very  observ- 
ing, came  bursting  in  at  the  door.  The  mother  wiped  her  eyes  and 
tried  to  put  on  her  usual  look,  but  he  had  seen  the  tears. 

“What’s  the  matter?”  he  cried,  with  a sharp  pain  in  his  voice. 

“Never  mind,  dear,”  she  said,  smiling.  “Get  the  hammer,  or  what- 
ever it  is  that  you  want,  and  run  out  again.  It  is  Thanksgiving  Day  — 
and  we  must  think  only  of  our  mercies.” 

“I  saw  you  crying  the  other  day,  too,”  the  boy  went  on.  “It  was  in 
the  arbor,  when  you  were  shelling  the  beans  out  there.  You  didn’t 
know  that  I saw  you,  but  I did.  Say,  mother,”  — lowering  his  voice  — 
“is  it  — is  it  — father?” 

“You  must  not  talk  about  it,”  she  said,  hurriedly.  “There  he  comes 
now.  You  must  laugh  and  play.  He  will  not  like  it  if  you  don’t.” 

Mr.  Reed’s  heavy  step  sounded  just  outside  the  door,  and  the  boy, 
after  an  instant’s  hesitation,  ran  away.  Mr.  Reed’s  voice  was  loud  and 
tremulous  and  his  face  was  red.  It  was  easy  to  guess  that  he  was  a 
drunkard.  Seeing  him,  anybody  could  understand  his  good  wife’s  tears. 

DeWitt  went  slowly  back  to  the  barn,  where  he  had  been  playing 
with  his  brother.  He  remembered  when  his  father  had  been  very  dif- 
ferent, and  when  his  mother  had  laughed  and  sung  from  morning  to 
night.  He  thought  of  the  loads  of  apples  which  he  had  helped  his 
father  to  pick  over  and  take  to  the  cider-press ; and  of  the  barrels  of 
cider  which  were  growing  “hard”  and  “strong”  in  the  cellar.  He  thought 
of  the  great  demijohn  of  whiskey  which  his  father  kept  in  a certain 
closet,  and  how  he  himself  had  liked  to  scrape  the  sugar  from  the 
bottom  of  the  glass  in  which  his  father  mixed  hisi  “sling.”  He  remem- 
bered, too,  how  his  mother  had  looked  very  white  when  she  saw  him, 
and  whispered,  “Please  don’t.” 

There  was  so  much  going  on  all  the  time,  and  he  had  been  so  busy 
in  school  that  he  had  not  had  time  to  think  of  all  these  things.  Now  he 
could  see  that  his  father  was  getting  worse  very  fast  — and  it  was 
making  his  mother  cry!  It  was  no  wonder  that  DeWitt  looked  sober  as 


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STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


he  opened  the  barn  door.  Of  course  the  others  noticed  it  at  once. 

“What’s  up?”  cried  little  Warren,  jumping  down  from  a great  hay- 
mow almost  upon  De Witt’s  head.  Warren  was  only  eight,  but  he  was 
very  thoughtful.  “Is  the  mortgage  going  to  be  closed  up,  or  whatever 
you  call  it?” 

“I  wouldn’t  wonder,”  said  DeWitt,  gravely. 

James  had  been  jumping  on  the  hay,  too;  but  presently  they  all 
stopped  and  sat  down  together,  talking  in  low  tones,  and  with  a worried 
look  on  their  faces. 

None  of  them  fully  understood  what  a mortgage  was,  but  they  knew 
that  it  was  something  dreadful,  in  their  mother’s  opinion.  They  knew, 
too,  that  within  a few  years  the  Reed  family  had  come  to  possess  one, 
and  that  “interest”  had  to  be  paid  on  it.  They  knew  that  if  this  interest 
were  not  paid,  they  would  sooner  or  later  lose  their  pleasant  home. 

Even  little  Warren  dimly  connected  this  chain  of  terrible  facts  with 
the  right  cause ; for  he  put  in  briskly,  while  his  brothers  were  talking. 
“Mother  said  not  to  drink  the  cider  out  of  father’s  pitcher.” 

As  they  talked  the  boys  grew  more  and  more  sober.  If  they  had  not 
soon  heard  their  father’s  voice  calling  them  in  to  dinner,  they  might  all 
have  fallen  to  crying. 

That  night,  when  their  mother  went  upstairs  with  them  at  bedtime^ 
they  all  knelt  together  and  said  their  prayers.  It  had  been  her  custom, 
when  these  were  done,  to  undress  Warren,  while  the  other  boys 
undressed  themselves.  Then  she  would  lie  down  for  a few  moments 
beside  each  one,  and  talk  softly  with  him  about  the  events  of  the  day. 

Something  had  kept  her,  during  these  talks,  from  speaking  of  any- 
thing which  might  seem  to  condemn  her  husband.  It  had  been  like  a 
knife  to  her  sopl  to  see  her  beautiful  boys  drinking  from  the  cider 
pitcher,  and  scraping  with  zest  the  sugar  from  their  father's  tumbler. 

“But  if  I forbid  them,  how  can  I enforce  obedience?”  she  had  sard 
to  herself.  “I  must  not  take  any  stand  until  I can  hold  it.  And  I must 
not  ‘nag’  them  constantly.  If  I do,  my  words  will  have  no  weight.” 

So  this  wise  mother  had  delayed,  giving  only  an  occasional  word  of 
counsel  and  reproof  on  the  subject  which  most  tried  her  soul.  She 
prayed  for  help  and  guidance,  and  it  came. 

To-night  she  saw  that  the  boys  acted  strangely.  They  looked  at 
each  other  meaningly.  Several  times  they  made  disjointed  remarks  to 
each  other  which  she  could  not  understand. 


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127 


At  last,  they  were  all  in  bed.  She  felt  that  her  time  had  come. 
To-night  she  must  speaki  It  had  been  the  most  trying  day  of  her  life. 
Her  husband  had  lain,  almost  ever  since  dinner,  in  a drunken  stupor 
upon  the  couch.  She  felt  as  though  she  could  bear  no  more.  She  must 
speak  plainly  to  her.  boys.  They  were  young,  but  they  could  see  that 
drink  was  a horrible  evil.  They  ought  to  be  strong  enough  to  promise 
never  to  touch  it.  She  could  show  them  how  no  one  became  a drunkard 
all  at  once.  The  beginnings  were  small,  and  the  habit  grew  slowly.  Oh, 
if  they  would  only  promise  never  to  begin ! 

Before  she  could  speak  a word,  DeWitt  said,  “Is  it  time  now, 
tellers  ?” 

“Yes!”  they  cried. 

And  from  under  his  pillow  the  dear  little  eldest  brother  produced  a 
piece  of  coarse,  torn  brown  wrapping  paper,  carefully,  but  not  quite 
neatly,  folded. 

“Read  it,  mother  1”  he  commanded,  joyously. 

Taking  it  to  the  lamp,  she  read,  scrawled  in  a big,  boyish  hand, 
these  words;  “Pledge:  We  ain’t  never  going  to  drink  no  cider.  DeWitt 
Reed.  James  Reed.  Warren  Reed.  8 cents.” 

“You  see,”  exclaimed  James,  “we  thought  we’d  give  you  some 
Thanksgiving.” 

Happy  tears  rolled  down  their  mother’s  face,  as  she  kissed  and 
thanked  them  all. 

“But  what  does  the  ‘8  cents’  mean?”  she  asked  them. 

“Oh,  if  any  one  of  us  does  drink  cider,  he  has  got  to  pay  the  others 
eight  cents,”  laughed  DeWitt. 

“Trouble  after  trouble  came  upon  us,”  Mrs.  Reed  was  in  the  habit 
of  saying,  in  later  times.  ‘We  lost  our  pleasant  home  — and  for  years 
we  scarcely  knew  from  one  day  to  another  where  we  were  to  get  our 
daily  bread.  But  the  joy  of  that  happy  Thanksgiving  made  all  those 
sorrows  light.  For  my  boys  kept  their  ‘pledge,’  and  that  rough,  torn 
scrap  of  brown  paper  is  the  dearest  thing  that  I own,  and  will  be  till 
I die.” — Kate  Upson  Clark  in  The  Ram’s  Horn. 

EXPERIENCE  OF  COL.  S.  E.  HADLEY. 

I sat  in  a saloon  in  Harlem,  a homeless,  friendless,  dying  drunkard. 
I had  pawned  or  sold  everything  that  would  bring  a drink.  I could  not 


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STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


sleep  unless  I was  dead  drunk.  I had  not  eaten  for  four  days,  and  for 
four  nights  preceding  I had  suffered  with  delirium  tremens  from  mid- 
night till  morning.  I had  often  said : ‘T  will  never  be  a tramp ; I will 
never  be  cornered;  for,  when  that  time  comes,  if  it  ever  does,  I will 
find  a home  in  the  bottom  of  the  river.”  But  the  Lord  so  ordered  it, 
that  when  the  time  did  come,  I was  not  able  to  walk  one-quarter  of  the 
way  to  the  river.  As'  I sat  there  thinking,  I seemed  to  feel  some  great 
and  mighty  presence.  I did  not  know  then  what  it  was.  I did  learn 
afterward  that  it  was  Jesus,  the  sinner’s  friend.  I walked  up  to  the  bar 
and  pounded  it  with  my  fist  till  I made  the  glasses  rattle.  Those  v.'ho 
stood  by  looked  on  with  scornful  curiosity.  I said  I would  never  take 
another  drink,  if  I died  in  the  streets;  and  I felt  as  though  that  would 
happen  before  morning.  Something  said,  “If  you  want  to  keep  this 
promise,  go  and  have  yourself  locked  up.”  I went  to  the  nearest  station 
house,  a short  distance  away,  and  had  myself  locked  up. 

I was  placed  in  a narrow  cell,  and  it  seemed  as  though  all  the 
demons  that  could  find  room  came  in  that  place  with  me.  This  was 
not  all  the  company  I had  either.  No,  praise  the. Lord!  that  dear  Spirit 
that  came  to  me  in  the  saloon  was  present,  and  said,  “Pray !”  I did 
pray ; and  though  I did  not  feel  any  great  help,  I kept  on  praying.  As 
soon  as  I was  able  to  leave  my  cell,  I was  taken  to  the  police  court,  and 
remanded  back  to  the  cell.  I was  finally  released,  and  found  my  way 
to  my  brother’s  house,  where  every  care  was  given  me.  While  T was 
lying  in  bed,  the  admonished  spirit  never  left  me,  and  when  I arose  the 
following  Sabbath  morning  I felt  that  day  would  decide  my  fate. 

Many  plans  were  turned  over  in  my  mind,  but  all  were  rejected; 
and  towards  evening  it  came  into  my  head  to  go  to  Jerr}'  iSIcAuley’s 
Mission.  I went.  The  house  was'  packed,  and  with  great  difficulty  I 
made  my  way  to  the  space  near  the  platform.  There  I saw  the  apostle 
of  the  drunkard  and  the  outcast  — the  man  of  God,  Jerry  McAuley. 
He  arose,  and  amid  deep  silence,  told  his  experience  — that  simple  story 
that  I have  heard  so  many  hundred  times  afterward,  but  which  was 
ever  new:  “how  he  had  been  a ‘thief,’  an  outcast,  a drunkard,  ‘but  I 
gave  my  heart  to  God,  and  he  saved  me  from  everything  that’s  wicked 
and  bad.’  ” There  was  a sincerity  about  this  man  and  his  testimony 
that  carried  conviction  with  it,  and  I found  myself  saying,  “I  wonder 
if  God  can  save  me?”  I listened  to  the  testimony  of  t-wenty-five  or  thirty 


“In  the  great  library  of  Carville  Tower.” 


See  Page  144 


% 


You  feel  yourself  above  it,  no  doubt. 


See  Page  95 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


129 


persons,  every  one  of  whom  had  been  saved  from  ruin,  and  I made  up 
my  mind  that  I would  be  saved  or  die  right  there. 

When  the  invitation  was  given,  I knelt  down  with  quite  a crowd 
of  drunkards.  Never  will  I forget  that  scene ! How  I wondered  if  I 
would  be  saved!  if  God  would  help  me!  I was  a total  stranger;  but  I 
felt  I had  sympathy,  and  it  helped  me.  Jerry  made  the  first  prayer.  I 
shall  never  forget  it.  He  said : “Dear  Saviour,  won’t  you  look  down  in 
pity  on  these  poor  souls?  They  need  your  help,.  Lord;  they  can’t  get 
along  without  it.  Blessed  Jesus,  these  poor  sinners  have  got  them- 
selves into  a bad  hole.  Won’t  you  help  them  out?  Speak  to  them, 
Lord!  do,  for  Jesus’  sake  — Amen!”  Then  Mrs.  McAuley  prayed  fer- 
vently for  us,  and  Jerry  said:  “Now,  all  keep  on  your  knees  and  keep 
praying,  while  I ask  these  dear  souls  to  pray  for  themselves.”  He  spoke 
to  one  after  another,  as  he  placed  his  hand  on  their  heads,  saying, 
“Brother,  you  pray.  Now,  tell  the  Lord  just  what  you  want  Him  to  do 
for  you.”  How  I trembled  as  he  approached  me ! Though  I knelt  down 
with  the  determination  to  give  my  heart  to  God,  when  it  came  to  the 
very  moment  of  grand  decision,  I felt  like  backing  out.  The  devil  knelt 
by  my  side  and  whispered  in  my  ears  crimes  I had  forgotten  for  months. 
“What  are  you  going  to  do  about  such  and  such  matters  if  you  start 
to  be  a Christian  to-night?  Now  you  can’t  afford  to  make  a mistake; 
had  you  not  better  think  this  matter  over  a while,  and  try  to  fix  up  some 
of  the  troubles  you  are  in,  and  then  start?”  Oh,  what  a conflict  was 
going  on  for  my  poor  soul ! A blessed  whisper  said,  “Come !”  The 
devil  said,  “Be  careful !”  Jerry’s  hand  was  on'  my  head.  He  said, 
“Brother,  pray.”  I said,  “Can’t  you  pray  for  me?”  Jerry  said,  “All  the 
prayers  in  the  world  won’t  save  you  unless  you  pray  for  yourself.” 
I halted  but  a moment,  and  then,  with  a breaking  heart,  I said,  “Dear 
Jesus,  can  You  help  me?”  Never  with  mortal  tongue  can  I describe 
that  moment.  Although  up  to  that  moment  my  soul  had  been  filled  with 
indescribable  gloom,  I felt  the  glorious  brightness  of  the  noonday  sun 
shine  into  my  heart;  I felt  I was  a free  man.  Oh,  the  precious  feeling 
of  safety,  of  freedom,  of  resting  on  Jesus ! I felt  that  Christ,  with  all 
His  brightness  and  power,  had  come  into  my  life ; that  indeed  old  things 
had  passed  away,  and  all  things'  had  become  new. 

From  that  moment  until  now  I have  never  wanted  a drink  of 
whiskey,  and  I have  never  seen  money  enough  to  make  me  take  one. 
I promised  God  that  night  that  if  he  would  take  away  the  appetite  for 


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STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


strong  drink,  I would  work  for  Him  all  my  life.  He  has  done  His 
part,  and  I have  been  trying  to  do  mine. — Way  of  Faith. 

ANTON  VESTER’S  REVENGE. 

“John,  did  you  see  this  letter?  It  was  brought  here  this  afternoon 
while  you  were  out,”  said  the  minister’s  wife  to  her  husband,  as  he  was 
going  up-stairs  to  his  study. 

The-  minister  took'  the  letter,  and  started  to  go  on  again,  but  at  the 
sight  of  the  address  on  the  envelope  he  stopped  and  opened  the  letter 
where  he  was.  He  read  it  through,  and  then  went  in  to  the  dining  room 
where  his  wife  had  gone. 

“Mary,  do  you  know  what  this  letter  is?”  Then,  without  waiting 
for  an  answer,  the  minister  went  on : “Let  me  read  it  to  you.  I need 
your  advice. 

“‘Mr.  John  Glenning — My  dear  Pastor:  I dread  to  tell  you  the 
news  again  which  so  often  before  has  caused  me  anguish  and  you  trouble 
and  vexation  But  I cannot  help  coming  to  you  once  more.  I do  not 
know  where  else  to  go.  Some  one  in  town  has  been  selling  George 
liquor  again.  Last  night  he  came  home  reeling!  Is  the  law  powerless 
to  convict  those  who,  contrary  to  the  law  of  our  state,  sell  the  poison 
secretly?  How  long  shall  I pray  and  weep  that  my  boy  may  be  spared 
going  the  way  of  his  brother?  For  the  sake  of  the  Father  in  heaven, 
Mr.  Glenning,  search  out  the  guilty  parties  and  bring  them  to  justice! 
This  is  my  prayer  and  the  prayer  of  many  another  heartbroken  mother 
in  this  town.  I do  not  sign  my  name.  You  know  who  I am,  a mother 
praying  day  and  night  that  her  youngest  boy  may  be  spared  from  a 
drunkard’s  fate.’  ” 

The  minister  looked  up  from  the  letter,  and  his  wife’s  face  was  full 
of  sympathetic  questions. 

“It  is  terrible,  John,  this  great  curse  of  intemperance.  But  what 
can  you  do  in  this  case?” 

“I  can  try  to  find  the  man  who  is  selling  the  liquor  to  George.” 

“I  don’t  see  how.  But  what  if  you  do  find  him?” 

“Then  I will  bring  him  to  justice.  We  have  a right  to  defend  our 
homes  and  our  church  from  such  awful  danger.” 

“Do  you  think,  John,  it  is  your  business  as  a minister  to  undertake 
this  kind  of  work?” 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


131 


“Mary,  any  kind  of  work  is  my  business  that  will  save  life.  If  no 
one  else  in  this  town  will  get  the  evidence  against  this  person  who  is 
selling  intoxicants  contrary  to  the  law,  then  I will  do  it  myself.” 

The  minister’s  wife  was  silent  a moment.  Then  she  said,  “John,  I 
have  faith  to  believe  you  are  right;  but  I cannot  help  feeling  that  you 
are  about  to  undertake  a very  difficult  and  dangerous  duty.” 

“It  is  no  more  than  I ought  to  perform.  How  else  can  I answer  the 
appeal  in  this  letter?”  Mrs.  Glenning  did  not  reply.  She  looked  forward 
with  intense  anxiety  to  the  task  her  husband  seemed  resolved  to  under- 
take. She  had  great  confidence  in  his  ability,  but  she  could  not  help 
feeling  that  never  in  all  his  parish  life  had  he  faced  any  duty  so  serious. 

A week  after  this  talk  between  them,  the  minister  handed  his  wife 
the  morning  paper,  and  pointed  silently  to  an  article  printed  very  con- 
spicuously on  the  local  page.  It  was  headed : 

“LIQUOR  SELLER  ARRESTED! 

On  Charges  Preferred  to  the  County  Attorney  by  Rev.  John  Clenning. 

The  Case  Will  Come  to  Trial  in  the  District  Court  in  One  Month.” 

The  article  continued: 

“Last  evening  Rev.  John  Glenning  filed  a stateinent  with  the 
county  attorney  in  which  he  charges  Anton  Vester  with  selling  liquor 
in  violation  of  the  prohibitory  laws  of  the  state.  He  will  appear  against 
Vester  as  prosecuting  witness  at  the  time  of  the  trial.  We  understand 
that  the  evidence  is  very  conclusive.” 

The  minister’s  wife  looked  up  from  the  reading,  and  her  eyes  were 
anxious  and  troubled. 

“John,  you  never  told  me  about  it.  How  did  you  succeed?” 

“I  did  not  want  to  talk  about  it  until  I had  actually  done  something. 
You  know  that  is  my  way.  Well,  when  I found  that  the  police  and  the 
sheriff  and  the  county  attorney  did  not  intend  to  do  anything  to  close 
up  this  drinking  place,  I went  myself  and  secured  the  evidence  of  three 
sales  of  liquor.” 

“How  could  you?  Did  not  this  man  know  you?” 

“No.  He  is  a comparative  stranger.  I stood  in  one  end  of  his  place 
while  the  purchases  were  being  made.  The  open  violation  of  the  law 
is  very  bold.  There  is  no  doubt  of  the  fact  that  he  is  guilty.” 

“Do  you  think  he  will  be  convicted?  Is  it  necessary  for  you  to 
appear  against  him?” 


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STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


“Yes,  I must  appear  as  prosecuting  witness.  The  crisis  is  a serious 
one  in  our  town.  If  some  one  does  not  try  to  prevent  the  sale  of  liquor 
here,  our  young  men  will  be  in  danger  of  being  lost,  body  and  soul.  You 
would  not  have  me  a coward,  Mary?” 

“No,  no ! But,  John,  I am  afraid  of  what  may  happen  to  you.  This 
is  a terrible  enemy  to  fight,  this  liquor  enemy.” 

“I  know  it,  and  I believe,  Mary,  that  I have  counted  the  cost.  I 
must  go  forward  now  that  I have  begun.  The  church  people  and  all 
the  best  citizens  in  town  are  in  sympathy  with  my  efforts.  That  is  a 
great  help.  Don’t  worry  over  the  result.  We  are  in  the  hands  of  God.” 

For  answer  the  minister's  wife  put  her  hand  in  that  of  her  husband, 
and  pledged  him  her  enthusiastic  and  loving  confidence  in  the  battle 
he  had  begun. 

The  month  went  by,  and  the  day  of  the  trial  drew  near.  But  before 
that  date  the  minister  received  an  anonymous  letter,  a knowledge  of 
which  he  carefully  kept  from  his  wife  until  long  after  the  events. that 
followed.  This  letter  read ; 

“Rev.  Glenning — Sir:  If  you  go  on  with  this  case  of  Anton  Vester, 
you  will  have  reason  to  be  sorry  for  it.  Better  take  warning  and  have^ 
the  case  dismissed  before  anything  happens  to  you  or  yours.” 

The  minister  kept  this  letter  a secret  from  his  wife  so  as  not  to  add 
to  her  anxiety.  Nevertheless,  he  felt  a little  nervous,  for  it  was  the  first 
anonymous  letter  he  had  ever  received. 

When  the  day  of  trial  came,  the  court  room  was  crowded.  The 
liquor  men  came  in  a body.  The  minister’s  parish  was  well  represented. 
It  was  the  first  time  a minister  had  appeared  as  prosecuting  witness. 

The  evidence  was  plain  and  conclusive.  On  the  day  alleged,  the 
minister  had  gone  into  the  place  of  Anton  "Vester,  the  accused,  and  had 
there  seen  him  sell,  contrary  to  the  state  laws,  three  bottles  of  whiskey. 
The  closest  cross-examination  failed  to  shake  the  evidence  in  the  least, 
and  the  jury,  after  being  out  less  than  half  an  hour,  returned  a verdict 
of  guilty. 

Throughout  the  trial  the  accused  had  sat  with  his  wife  and  little 
girl  close  to  the  jury.  The  child  was  beautiful-faced,  attractive  and 
winsome.  When  her  father  was  on  the  witness  stand  denying  the 
charges  against  him,  she  climbed  up  into  her  mother’s  lap.  When  her 
father  came  down  again,  he  held  her.  The  minister  could  not  restrain 
a feeling  of  pity  as  he  looked  at  the  family.  Nothing  but  his  sense  of 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


133 


duty  owed  to  that  other  mother  whose  boy  was  in  danger  of  r-uin, 
steadied  his  purpose  as  the  trial  proceeded. 

When  the  verdict  was  given  by  the  foreman,  the  court-house  was 
very  still.  As  soon  as  the  foreman  ceased  speaking,  the  accused  and 
convicted  man  jumped  to  his  feet,  and,  beside  himself  with  rage,  shook 
his  fist  in  the  minister’s  face. 

‘T  will  have  revenge!  If  I go  to' jail,  watch  for  yourself!” 

“Silence  in  court!”  shouted  the-  judge  sternly.  “Bailiff,  take  the 
prisoner  in  charge !” 

The  greatest  excitement  prevailed  for  a short  time.  When  quiet 
had  been  restored,  the  attorney  for  the  defense  moved  for  a new  trial. 
The  court  overruled  the  motion,  and  at  once  proceeded  to  pronounce 
the  sentence. 

“Prisoner  at  the  bar,  you  stand  committed,  according  to  the  law 
of  the  state,  to  the  county  jail  for  ninety  days,  and  will  pay  a fine  of 
three  hundred  dollars.” 

The  guilty  man  heard  the  sentence  in  silence.  As  he  was  being 
taken  out  of  the  court-room,  he  was  heard  to  mutter,  “I  will  have  my 
revenge !” 

As  the  minister,  surrounded  by  several  of  his  parishioners,  was 
leaving  the  court-room,  the  wife  of  the  accused  confronted  him.  For  a 
moment  it  seemed  as  if  she  had  meant  to  strike  him.  Her  face  grew 
deadly  pale ; she  seemed  almost  like  a wild  animal  about  to  spring.  Sud- 
denly she  turned  and  went  out  rapidly,  leading  the  child  with  her. 

The  minister  went  home  completely  exhausted  with  the  nervous 
tension  of  the  trial  and  the  scenes  attending  it. 

“Mary,”  he  said  that  night,  “this  has  been  the  severest  experience 
©f  my  whole  life.” 

“Do  you  still  think  you  have  acted  wisely,  John?”  His  wife  put  the 
question  more  to  satisfy<.  herself  than  her  husband. 

“I  have  no  doubt  whatev  It  was  necessary.  I have  no  question 
as  to  the  perfect  right  of  my  action.  I regret  the  suffering  that  will  fall 
on  the  innocent  as  well  as  the  guilty.  But  that  is  always  the  way  with 
sin.  It  hurts  so  many  others  besides  the  sinner.” 

It  was  on  the  Sunday  night  succeeding  the  trial  that  the  minister 
awoke  about  two  o’clock  in  the  morning  with  a nervous  start  that  he 
could  not  account  for.  Something  was  wrong  somewnere.  There  was 
no  noise  in  the  house.  Everything  was  very  quiet.  It  was  a winter. 


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STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


night,  frosty  and  still.  He  arose  and  dressed  hurriedly,  under  the 
growing  impression  that  in  spite  of  the  absence  of  any  definite  danger, 
something  was  wrong.  His  wife  was  frightened. 

“John!  What  is  the  matter?  What  are  you  going  to  do?” 

“Don’t  be  frightened,  Mary.  I want  to  look  around  a little.” 

He  walked  to  the  window  looking  out  towards  the  small  stable  at 
the  rear  end  of  the  yard,  and  drew  up  the  curtain.  As  he  did  so,  a 
strange  light  flashed  up  from  behind  the  stable.  It  grew  brighter  as  he 
looked. 

“I  believe  the  stable  is  on  fire ! I must  run  and  see.  Pump  some 
water  from  the  cistern,  while  I run  out  with  a panful.” 

The  minister  rushed  out.  It  was  only  a little  way.  When  he 
opened  the  stable  door,  a volume  of  smoke  and  flame  poured  out.  He 
fought  his  way  in,  pouring  the  water  upon  the  flames  where  they  had 
begun  to  run  up  the  side  of  the  building.  With  great  difficulty  he  suc- 
ceeded in  dragging  out  of  the  stable  his  horse  and  cow.  Then  followed 
a fierce  fight  with  the  fire.  His  wife  brought  water.  The  neighbors 
came  to  the  rescue.  And  at  last  the  flames  were  put  out,  but  not  before 
the  minister’s  hands  were  terribly  burned. 

The  neighbors  whispered  among  themselves,  “incendiary  fire  1”  The 
minister  said  little.  He  was  thinking  of  the  man  in  the  court-room  and 
his  words  at  the  time  he  was  convicted.  He  was  also  calling  up  the  look 
on  the  woman’s  face  as  she  left  the  court-room. 

Three  months  had  gone,  and  it  was  the  evening  of  the  last  day  of 
Anton  Vester’s  imprisonment.  He  was  to  be  released  at  4 o’clock  that 
afternoon. 

On  the  same  day  Rev.  John  Glenning,  still  suffering  from  the  effect 
of  the  terrible  burning  of  his  hands,  had  received  a note  signed  by  one 
of  his  parishioners : 

“Dear  Pastor:  I have  learned  to-day  that  Mrs.  Vester,  the  wife  of 
the  man  convicted  for  liquor  selling,  is  suffering  for  want  of  fuel  and 
clothing  this  severe  weather.  I am  sure  you  will  be  glad  and  able  to  do 
something  for  the  woman  and  her  little  girl.  They  live  down  near  the 
old  river  bridge,  the  one  that  has  been  condemned  as  unsafe  lately.  The 
house  IS  tne  old  brick  house  standing  in  the  grove  of  cottonwoods. 

“Truly  yours,  CALVIN  CLARK.” 

This  letter  aroused  no  suspicion  in  the  minister’s  mind.  He  decided 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


135 


to  go  at  once.  He  left  his  house  a little  before  five,  carrying  with  him 
what  he  thought  was  necessary. 

It  was  a long,  cold  walk.  The  winter  day  was  gone,  and  by  the 
time  he  reached  the  river,  he  could  just  see  the  brick  house  in  the  grove. 
He  walked  rapidly  along,  and  was  just  passing  the  end  of  the  old  bridge, 
when  he  was  startled  by  a woman’s  cry  coming  from  the  direction  of  the 
bridge  and  out  upon  it. 

He  put  down  his  blanket  and  turned  about,  setting  foot  carefully 
on  the  old  timbers  of  the  dangerous  bridge ; and,  as  he  advanced,  a 
woman  came  running  towards  him.  She  was  the  wife  of  Vester! 

She  was  shrieking:  “My  child!  She  has  fallen  into  the  river! 
O God ! Save  her !” 

In  a second  the  minister  understood. 

Coming  across  the  old  bridge  in  the  dark,  the  child  in  some  way  had 
fallen  through  a dangerous  place. 

The  mother,  who  had  sent  her  earlier  in  the  day  on  an  errand,  had 
gone  out  on  the  bridge  to  meet  her.  No  one  supposed  the  bridge  was 
rotten.  She  had  seen  the  child  fall,  and  turned  screaming  for  help. 

The  river  was  filled  with  great  blocks  of  ice.  Some  of  them  were 
thirty  feet  across.  A heavy  fall  of  snow  had  covered  them.  Upon  one 
of  these  blocks,  cushioned  with  snovr,  the  child  had  fallen,  and  the 
minister  could  see  her  dark  form  against  the  white.  The  current  was 
sluggish  and  the  ice  was  moving  slowly. 

He  ran  off  the  bridge  and  down  the  bank,  watching  narrowly  for  an 
opportunity  to  leap  on  the  moving  mass.  Near  the  shore  a broad  band 
of  dark  water  whirled.  He  ran  on  down  farther,  and  at  last,  as  a cake 
floated  nearer,  he  made  a spring  and  landed  on  it. 

Making  his  way  with  the  utmost  courage  to  the  form  of  the  child, 
he  finally  reached  her  and  caught  her  up.  She  was  unconscious.  He 
made  his  way  back  cautiously.  Great  gaps  yawned  between  the  blocks 
— sure  death  for  him.  When  within  twenty  feet  from  the  bank,  he 
jumped  upon  a block  that  broke  under  his  weight.  He  went  down  into 
the  icy  water,  but  to  his  great  joy  he  felt  as  the  water  closed  over  him, 
that  his  feet  touched  the  ground.  He  struggled  with  the  strength  of  a 
giant  against  the  ice  that  crowded  around  him,  and  gradually  forced 
his  way  to  the  bank.  Dripping  and  exhausted  he  bore  out  of  the  river 
the  child  he  had  saved. 

The  mother  had  followed  this  heroism  with  feelings  of  terror.  There 


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was  no  time  now  for  anything  but  action.  They  wrapped  the  child  in  a 
shawl  torn  from  the  mother’s  shoulders,  and  at  their  best  speed  hurried 
t©  the  brick  house. 

The  minister  will  never  forget  the  scene  as  they  pushed  open  the 
door.  There  stood  Anton  Vester,  the  husband,  and  with  him  three 
other  men. 

“Well,  where  have  you  been?”  were  the  words  with  which  he 
greeted  his  wife.  “Have  you  got  that  preacher?”  Then  at  sight  of 
Glenning  and  the  bundle  in  his  arms,  the  man  stammered  and  stood 
silent. 

“Anson !”  screamed  his  wife,  as  she  fell  on  her  knees  before  him. 
“Our  child!  Mr.  Glenning  has  saved  her  life!  Think  what  w’e  were 
about  to  do !” 

The  man  stood  stupefied.  Then,  as  the  story  was  told  him  and  he 
understood  what  had  been  done,  he  sat  down  and  covered  his  face  with 
his  hands,  while  the  other  men  ran  out,  obeying  the  minister’s  orders 
to  get  a doctor  with  all  speed. 

When  Rev.  John  Glenning  recovered  from  a long  illness  caused  by 
that  night’s  exposure,  the  best  friends  he  had  in  his  parish  were  Anton 
Vester  and  his  wife  and  child.  It  was  not  long  after  that  he  learned 
how  his  stable  had  been  fired  by  a friend  of  Vester’s,  and  the  note  sent 
was  forged  by  another  man  to  lure  him  to  Vester’s  house  that  night, 
where  it  was  the  intention  to  beat  him  within  an  inch  of  his  life.  These 
things  are  forgotten  by  Rev.  John  Glenning  as  he  goes  into  Anton 
Vester’s  home  as  his  pastor. 

“My  revenge  was  a failure,  Mr.  Glenning,  God  be  praised  for  it. 
But  your  revenge  was  a success.” 

“How  is  that?”  inquires  the  minister,  as  he  bends  to  kiss  the  sweet 
child  he  once  saved. 

“You  heaped  coals  of  fire  on  my  head.” 

“That  kind  of  revenge  is  very  sweet,”  replies  the  Rev.  John  Glen- 
ning, smiling.  And  he  goes  his  way  through  his  parish,  thanking  God 
for  victory  over  evil. — Rev.  Charles  M.  Sheldon  in  The  Christian  En- 
deavor World. 

THE  COST  OF  ONE  DRINK. 

“In  a recent  visit  to  the  Leavenworth,  Kansas,  Prison,”  said  Mi. . 
Emma  Molloy,  “during  my  address  on  Sabbath  morning,  I observed  a 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


137 


boy  not  more  than  seventeen  or  eighteen  years  of  age,  on  the  front  seat, 
intently  eyeing  me.  The  look  he  gave  me  was  so  full  of  earnest  longing, 
it  spoke  volumes  to  me.  At  the  close  of  the  service,  I asked  the  warden 
for  an  interview  with  him,  which  he  readily  granted.  As  he  approached 
me  his  face  grew  deathly  pale;  and  as  he  grasped  my  hand  he  could  not 
retain  the  fast-falling  tears.  Choking  with  emotion,  he  said : 

“I  have  been  in  this  prison  two  years,  and  you  are  the  first  person 
that  has  called  for  me  — the  first  woman  who  has  spoken  to  me.” 

“ ‘How  is  this,  my  child  ? Have  you  no  friends  that  love  you  ? 
Where  is  your  mother?” 

“The  great  brown  eyes,  swimming  with  tears,  were  slowly  uplifted 
to  mine,  and  he  replied : 

“ ‘My  friends  are  all  in  Texas.  My  mother  is  an  invalid,  and 
fearing  that  the  knowledge  of  the  terrible  fall  would  kill  her,  I have 
kept  my  whereabouts  a profound  secret.  For  two  years  I have  borne 
my  awful  homesickness  in  silence  for  her  sake.’ 

“As  he  buried  his  face  in  his  hands,  and  heartsick  sobs  burst  from 
his  trembling  frame,  it  seemed  to  me  I could  see  a panorama  of  the 
days  and  nights,  the  long  weeks  of  homesick  longing,  that  had  dragged 
their  weary  length  out  over  two  years,  so  I ventured  to  ask: 

“ ‘How  much  longer  have  you  to  stay?’ 

“ ‘Three  years,’  waS'  the  reply,  as  the  fair  young  head  dropped  lower, 
and  the  little  hand  trembled  with  suppressed  emotion. 

“‘How  did  it  happen?’ 

“‘Well,’  he  replied,  ‘it’s  a long  story,  but  I’ll  make  it  short.  I 
started  out  from  home  to  try  to  do  something  for  myself.  Coming  to 
Leavenworth,  I found  a cheap  boarding-house,  and  one  night  I accepted 
an  invitation  from  one  of  the  young  men  to  go  into  a drinking  saloon. 
For  the  first  time  in  my  life  I drank  a glass  of  liquor;  it  fired  my  brain; 
there  is  a confused  remembrance  of  the  quarrel,  somebody  was  stabbed, 
the  bloody  knife  was  found  in  my  hand,  I was  indicted  for  assault  with 
intent  to  kill.’  , 

“Five  years  for  the  thoughtless  acceptance  of  a glass  of  liquor  is 
surely  illustrating  the  Scripture  truth,  that  the  ‘way  of  the  transgressor 
is  hard !’  I was  holding  the  cold,  trembling  hand  that  had  crept  into 
mine.  He  earnestly  tightened  his  grasp  as,  imploringly,  he  said': 

“ ‘O  Mrs.  Molloy,  I want  to  ask  a favor  of  you.’ 

“At  once  I expected  he  waS'  going  to  ask  me  to  obtain  a pardon. 


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and  in  an  instant  I measured  the  weight  of  public  reproach  that  rests 
upon  the  victims  of  this  legalized  drink  traffic.  It  is  all  right  to  legalize 
a man  to  craze  the  brains  of  our  boys ; but  not  by  any  means  to  ask  the 
state  to  pardon  its  victims.  Interpreting  my  thought,  he  said : 

“ T am  not  going  to  ask  you  to  get  me  a pardon,  but  I want  you  to 
write  to  my  mother  and  get  a letter  from  her  and  send  it  to  me.  Don’t 
for  the  world  tell  her  where  I am.  Better  not  tell  her  anything  about 
me.  Just  get  a line  from  her,  so  I can  look  upon  it!  Oh,  I am  so 
homesick  for  my  mother !’ 

“The  head  of  the  boy  dropped  down  into  my  lap,  with  a wailing  sob. 
I laid  my  hand  upon  his  head.  I thought  of  my  own  boy,  and  for  a few 
moments  was  silent,  and  let  the  outburst  of  sorrow  have  vent.  Presently 
I said: 

“ ‘Murray,  if  I were  your  mother,  and  the  odor  of  a thousand  prisons 
was  upon  you,  still  you  would  be  my  boy.  I should  like  to  know  where 
you  were.  Is  it  right  to  keep  that  mother  in  suspense?  Do  you  suppose 
that  there  has  ever  been  a day  or  night  that  she  has  not  prayed  for  her 
wandering  boy?  No,  Murray,  I will  only  consent  to  write  to  your 
mother  on  consideration  that  you  will  permit  me  to  write  the  whole 
truth,  just  as  one  mother  can  write  to  another.’ 

“After  some  argument  his  consent  was  finally  obtained,  and  a letter 
was  hastily  penned  and  sent  on  its  way.  A week  or  so  elapsed,  when 
the  following  letter  was  received  from  Texas: 

“‘Dear  sister  in  Christ:  Your  letter  was  this  day  received,  and  I 
hasten  to  thank  you  for  your  words  of  tender  sympathy  and  for  tidings 
of  my  boy  — the  first  we  have  had  in  two  years.  When  Murray  left 
home,  we  thought  it  would  not  be  long.  As  the  months  rolled  on,  the 
family  had  given  him  up  for  dead,  but  I felt  sure  God  would  give  me 
back  my  boy.  As  I write  from  the  couch  of  an  invalid,  my  husband  is 

in  W , nursing  another  son,  who  is  lying  at  the  gates  of  death  with 

typhoid  fever.  I could  not  wait  for  his  return  to  write  to  Murray.  I 
wrote  and  told  him,  if  I could,  how  quickly  I would  go  and  pillow  his 
head  upon  my  breast,  just  as  I did  when  he  was  a little  child.  My 
poor,  dear  boy  — so  generous,  kind,  and  loving.  What  could  he  have 
done  to  deserve  this  punishment?  You  did  not  mention  his  crime,  but 
say  it  was  committed  while  under  the  influence  of  drink.  I did  not  know 
he  had  ever  tasted  liquor.  We  raised  six  boys,  and  never  knew  one  of 
them  to  be  under  the  influence  of  drink.  Oh,  is  there  any  place  in  this 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


139 


nation  that  is  safe  when  our  boys  have  left  the  home-fold?  O God,  my 
sorrow  is  greater  than  I can  bear ! I cannot  go  to  him,  but,  sister,  I pray 
you  to  talk  to  him,  and  comfort  him  as  you  would  have  some  mother 
talk  to  your  boy,  were  he  in  his  place.  Tell  him  that  when  he  is  released, 
his  place  in  the  old  home-nest  and  his  mother’s  heart  is  awaiting  him.’ 

“Then  followed  the  loving  mother’s  words  for  Murray,  in  addition  to 
those  written.  As  I wept  bitter  tears  over  the  words,  so  full  of  heart- 
break, I asked  myself  the  question  : ‘How  long  will  the  nation  continue 
to  sanction  the  liquor  traffic  covenant  with  death  and  league  with  hell, 
to  rob  us  of  our  boys  ? Lovers  of  God  atid  humanity,  will  you  not  work 
for  the  passage  of  laws  that  will  save  the  boys  and  the  agony  of  mothers 
like  this?” — Selected  by  Way  of  Faith. 

THE  COMPANY  HE  KEPT. 

The  five  o’clock  afternoon  train  from  Denver  pulled  into  Fort 
Worth,  Texas,  a half  hour  late.  The  February  sun  was  setting  in  billows 
of  goldj  and  a stiff  norther  sweeping  over  the  prairie  city.  A tall,  dark 
young  man,  with  disheveled'  black  hair  and  haggard  eyes,  that  told  more 
forcibly  than  words,  of  an  extended  “spree’  and  attendant  debaucheries, 
stepped  upon  the  platform  and  gazed  about  him  inquiringly. 

“Not  a living  soul  that  I know,  as  my  name’s  Carroll  Carlton !”  he 
muttered,  “and  one  dime  my  only  earthly  possession ! If  I telegraph 
my  firm  for  another  remittance.  I’ll  be  fired  from  the  partnership,  and  if 
I pawn  my  overcoat  I’ll  freeze  in  this  norther.  I’m  starving,  so  here 
goes  the  dime  for  a sandwich,  and  I’ll  walk  the  streets  until  two,  when  an 
east-bound  train  goes  out.” 

He  started  toward'  the  lunch  counter,  and  came  face  to  face  with  a 
pale,  hollow-cheeked  boy  of  fifteen. 

“Why,  it’s  Billy  Barton  ! How  good  to  meet  somebody  from  home  !” 

The  boy  greeted  the  man  joyfully,  eagerly. 

“I’m  so  glad  to  see  you,  Mr.  Carlton  !” 

“How’s  your  mother,  and  what  are  you  d'oing  out  here,  Billie?” 

“Haven’t  you  heard  ? Mother’s  dead,  and  I’m  going  to  San  Antonio 
to  live  with  Uncle  Dave,  father’s  brother.  But,  Mr.  Carlton,  I’m  in  so 
much  trouble ! I didn’t  have  but  five  dollars  left  after  I’d  paid  for  my 
ticket,  and  my  pocket  was  picked  between  here  and  Memphis,.  I haven’t 
had  a bite  to  eat  since  yesterday  noon,  and  I’m  most  starved!  Can’t 


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STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


you  — won’t  you  lend  me  a dime?  I’ll  pay  it  back,  as  soon  as ” 

“Gladly  will  I give  you  the  dime,  my  boy.  Here,  take  this  and  get  a 
sandwich.  Wish  I was  in  better  shape  to  help  you  more.” 

“Maybe  you  need  this  dime  yourself,  Mr.  Carlton.” 

“Me?  Oh,  I’ll  soon  be  with  friends  and  have  all  I can  devour.  Take 
the  dime  and  welcome,  my  son.” 

“Thank  you,  Mr.  Carlton ! This  will  be  bread  on  the  waters,  as 
mother  used  to  say,  and  come  back ” The  boyish  voice  broke. 

Carlton  pressed  the  thin  hand  in  sympathy,  and  pushed  Billie  toward 
the  lunch  counter.  He  turned  down  the  shadowy  street.  He  passed  a 
brightly  lighted  saloon,  and  laughed  harshly. 

“No  chance  for  a high-ball  here ! But  as  I tramp  the  streets  to  keep 
warm,  maybe  I’ll  meet  some  old  acquaintance  who  hasn’t  struck  hard 
luck.  My,  but  I’m  hungry.” 

As  he  walked  down  the  thoroughfare,  he  resolutely  turned  his  face 
in  an  opposite  direction  when  he  passed  a fruit  stall  or  confectionery, 
which  set  forth  their  appetizing  wares.  From  the  rush  of  the  business 
section,  Carlton  turned  down  a side  street,  and  soon  found  himself  on  a 
quiet  avenue.  Arc  lights  were  few,  and  pedestrians  scattered.  He  reached 
a corner,  and  came  face  to  face  with  an  old,  white-haired  darkey,  who 
raised  his  hat,  bowed  politely,  then  stood  stock  still  and  stared  at  Carroll 
with  open  mouth  and  round,  wondering  eyes.  Without  giving  the  old 
man  a thought,  Carlton  strolled  on  to  the  next  corner  and  paused  under 
an  arc  light  to  decide  what  direction  he  would  turn  his  aimless  course. 
What  was  his  surprise  to  find  the  old  negro  almost  at  his  elbow! 

“What  do  you  want?”  asked  the  young  man  sharply. 

“Nothin’,  Boss.  You  jest  look  so  much  lack  my  young  Mistis,  that  I 
loves  to  look  at  you.” 

The  tones  were  respectful,  but  Carlton,  suspicious  of  foul  play, 
turned  to  retrace  his  steps  toward  the  business  center.  He  reached 
another  crossing  and  looked  back.  Only  a few  paces  behind  him  hobbled 
the  old  man. 

“What  are  you  following  me  for,  you  old  rascal?” 

“ ’Scuse  me.  Boss,  but  you’s  so  much  lack  my  Mistis,  dat’s  been  dead 
these  twenty  years,  dat  I can’t  keep  my  eyes  offen  you.” 

“See  here,  old  man,  you’re  after  a tip  or  you’re  watching  for  a 
chance  to  rob  me,  and  you  may  as  well  save  yourself  the  trouble,  for  I 
haven’t  got  a copper  1” 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


141 


“No,  sir,  Boss!  No,  sir!  I ain’t  wantin’  no  tip,  and  I wouldn’t  tech 
a hair  of  yo’  head  to  hurt  it.  Boss.  But  you’s  de  livin’  image  of  Miss 
Sallie  Carroll,  what  married  Marse  Jim  Carlton !” 

“Can  this  be  Jerry  Carroll?” 

“It  sho’  is,  Boss.  Marse  Dave  Carroll  gin  me  and  my  wife,  Lucy 
Ann,  to  Miss  Sallie  when  she  was  married',  and  we  lived  wid  ’em  till 
they  died,  eben  atter  freedom  broke  out.” 

“My  mother  was  Miss  Sallie  Carroll.  Lam  her  only  son,  Carroll 
Carlton.  I remember  you  now,  Jerry,  although  I haven’t  seen  you  since 
I was  a boy.” 

“Somethin’  tole  me  you  was  Miss  Sallie’s  boy!  Bless  de  Lawd  for 
dis  day!  Whar  is  you  stayin’,  Marse  Carroll?” 

“Nowhere,  Jerry!  I’m  in  hard  luck.  I’ve  been  out  in  the  Panhandle 
on  some  legal  business  for  our  firm,  and  fell  in  with  some  sports,  and  — 
well,  Jerry,  you  know  the  Carlton  blood.  When  they  get  started  they 
go  to  the  end  of  the  rope.  I gave  my  last  dime  to  a hungry  boy,  and 
I’m  slrianded.” 

“Come  ’cross  here  to  my  house,  Marse  Carroll.  When  yo’  paw 
died,  he  left  me  and  Lucy  Ann  a little  home.  We  sold  it  and  come  out 
here  ’long  of  our  chillun.  But  you  ’members  I was  ’zorter  on  yo’  paw’s 
plantation,  and  I’se  a preacher  now,  the  pasture  of  a church  here.  We 
has  prospered,  and  de  chillen  is  married  and  gone,  and  jest  me  and  Lucy 
Ann  lives  in  de  little  house  ’round  here.  Thank  de  Lawd  for  sendin’ 
me  a chance  to  help  my  young  marse !” 

The  old  man  led  the  way  down  a side  street  to  a neat  cottage,  as 
clean  within  and  without  as  mortal  hands  could  scrub  it.  Lucy  Ann 
was  cooking  supper,  but  stopped  long  enough  to  joyfully  welcome 
“Marse  Carroll,”  whom  she  had  nursed  as  a baby.  When  the  meal  yvas 
ready,  she  spread  the  whitest  of  cloths  upon  a little  table,  and  with 
ante-bellum  deference  served  the  well-prepared  food  as  though  the 
young  man  were  a prince.  Both  Jerry  and  his  wife  stood  behind  Carl- 
ton’s chair,  and  anticipated  every  want.  He  ate  ravenously,  and  when 
the  meal  was  over,  Jerry  led  him  into  the  front  room  and  said: 

“You’se  plum  wo’  out,  Marse  Carroll,  and  you  must  stay  here  until 
dat  ten  o’clock  train  in  the  mawnin’.” 

The  most  tempting  of  breakfasts  was  served  next  morning,  and 
Lucy  Ann  had  taken  the  dishes  to  the  kitchen,  when  Jerry  opened  a 
trunk  and  brought  out  a small  package  wrapped  in  tissue  paper. 


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STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


“Dar’s  somethin’  I want  you  to  read  me,  Marse  Carroll,  ’fore  you 
goes.  Yo’  maw.  Miss  Sallie,  gin  me  dis  Bible,  and  she  marked  some 
places  she  said  for  me  to  read  when  Satan  was  temptin’  me  too  hard. 
My  old  eyes  is  too  dim  to  see  fine  readin’,  and  I ain’t  never  been  able 
to  bring  the  glory  outen  dat  book  nohow,  lack  Miss  Sallie.” 

With  reverent  hand  Carlton  took  the  book.  Jerry  had  turned  to  the 
sixth  chapter  of  First  Corinthians.  The  ninth  and  tenth  verses  were 
marked  with  a faint  pencil  bracket. 

“She  done  that!  Yo’  maw,  Marse  Carroll.  She  read  it  to  me  when 
I had  been  on  a drunk,  lack  Marse  Jim.  Chile,  he  was  a mighty  fine 
man,  but  he  most  broke  Miss  Sallie’s  heart  a drinkin’.  She  gin  me  dis 
little  Bible,  and  I ’members  as  well  as  if  it  was  to-day,  how  she  read 
dem  verses.  Read  ’em,  Marse  Carlton !” 

Slowly  he  read; 

“Know  ye  not  that  the  unrighteous  shall  not  inherit  the  kingdom  of 

God?  Be  not  deceived: thieves,  nor  covetous,  nor  drunkards,  nor 

revilers,  nor  extortioners,  shall  inherit  the  kingdom  of  God.” 

“Marse  Carroll,  what  would  Miss  Sallie  say  if  she  knowed  her  little 
baby  boy  had  growed  up  a drunkard,  and  was  keepin’  comp’ny  ’long  of 
thieves  and  gamblers  and  sich?  De  blood  of  de  Carltons  ain’t  so  strong 
in  you,  Marse  Carroll,  but  what  de  blood  of  de  Lamb,  dat  Miss  Sallie 
alius  pinted  to,  can  help  you  pull  loose  from  sich  company,  and'  be  a 
man!  For  Miss  Sallie’s  sake,  won’t  you  cut  loose  from  dat  comp’ny, 
Marse  Carroll?” 

Memories  of  childhood  were  tugging  at  Carroll  Carlton’s  heart- 
strings. He  wavered.  If  he  made  a promise,  he  was  too  true  a Carlton 
to  break  it.  But  why  deny  himself  the  pleasure  of  gay  friends?  Why 
give  up  pleasures 

From  the  kitchen  Lucy  Ann’s  mellow,  plaintive  voice  rose  in  the 
familiar  words  of  a hymn : 

“When  through  the  deep  waters  I call  thee  to  go, 

The  rivers  of  sorrow  shall  not  overflow. 

ril  strengthen  thee,  keep  thee  and  cause  thee  to  stand. 

Upheld  by  my  mighty,  omnipotent  hand!” 

How  often  had  he  been  rocked  to  sleep  in  his  mother’s  arms  with 
that  old  hymn  as  a lullaby.  He  arose,  -with  a new  light  shining  in  his 
bloodshot  eyes. 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


143 


“I’ll  be  a man  from  this  hour,  Jerry!  You’ve  done  more  than 
minister  to  my  hungry  body,  — you’ve  shown  me  where  I stand!” 

“Bless  de  Lawd !” 

Carlton  refused  the  proffered  loan  of  money,  but  gratefully  accepted 
the  dainty  lunch  prepared  by  Lucy  Ann,  His  thanks  for  hospitalities 
were  somewhat  confused,  but  fully  understood  by  his  humble  friends. 

A few  years  later  Honorable  Carroll  Carlton  represented  his  home 
county  in  the  state  legislature.  Not  only  was  he  considered  the  most 
brilliant  member  of  that  body,  but  he  was  a staunch  advocate  of  pro- 
hibition, and  his  speech  on  this  movement  was  by  far  the  most  forcible 
and  convincing  of  the  session. 

The  papers  were  full  of  the  young  senator’s  praise  and  commenda- 
tion of  his  untiring  zeal  in  the  temperance  cause.  From  /all  over  the 
state  came  letters  of  congratulation  and  words  of  appreciation.  Wives 
and  mothers  thanked  him  gratefully  for  aiding  in  a victory  that  was  to 
protect  weak  and  tempted  husbands  and  sons  from  the  curse  of  drink. 

But  the  commendation  that  gave  Carlton  the  greatest  satisfaction, 
was  an  ill-spelled,  scrawling  letter  from  an  old  negro  preacher.  It  was 
this : 

“Dere  Marse  Carol ; You  is  keepin  good  compny  alrite.  Miss  Sallie 
would  be  proud  of  her  man.  Kepe  in  de  rite  way.  Jerry.” 

— Jennie  M.  Standifer  in  Union  Signal. 

ROGER  CARVILLE’S  ATONEMENT. 

PART  I. 

It  was  cold.  A black  frost,  now  in  its  third  week,  held  the  country- 
side in  its  grip.  Young  and  old,  peasants  and  gentry,  farmer  and  squire, 
all  were  content,  the  night  of  which  this  story  opens,  to  sit  clustered 
around  the  fire  piling  high  the  great  Yule  logs  in  the  open  chimney-piece. 

It  was  Christmas  Eve. 

The  tenants,  one  and  all,  on  the  Carville  estate  had  reason  to  be  con- 
tent and  to  celebrate  the  occasion  with  good  cheer,  song  and  story. 
For  was  not  Sir  Roger  Carville  a landlord  just  and  generous!  All  had 
shared  in  his  Christmas  bounty. 

In  every  humble  cottage  it  had  been  his  pleasure  to  see  that  there 
were  blankets  and  fuel  and  plenty  of  good  Christmas  fare. 

No  wonder  that  the  villagers  were  grateful  and  vowed  that  theirs 


144 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


was  the  happiest  community  in  all  the  countryside.  “Not  a home,”  they 
told  each  other,  “but  wherein  happiness,  joy  and  contentment  reigns.” 

And  that  is  where  these  optimistic  souls  were  mistaken.  There  was 
one  house  where  anger  and  misery  had  usurped  the  throne  of  joyous 
festivity.  In  the  great  library  of  Carville  Tower  — that  magnificent 
Elizabethan  structure  — the  owner  of  this  beautiful  home  and  estate  was 
pacing  to  and  fro  with  stern  white  face  and  set  lips. 

Sir  Roger  Carville  was  a fine  specimen  of  the  old  English  aristocracy. 
Upright,  just,  with  a keen  sense  of  his  responsibilities  as  the  lord  of  two 
manors,  and  holding  five  church  livings  at  his  disposal ; the  fourteenth 
baronet  in  direct  succession  from  a noble  line  of  honorable  and  honored 
ancestry,  he  was  respected  throughout  D shire  as  a worthy  represen- 

tative of  the  race  from  which  he  sprang. 

His  sterling  integrity,  high  sense  of  justice,  and  gentle,  but  direct 
and  generous,  Christian  spirit,  had  not  only  made  him  respected  and 
looked-up-to  by  his  brother  magistrates  on  the  county  bench,  but 
honored  by  those  whom  he  had  to  punish  or  judge. 

In  short,  a fine  gentleman,  “and  the  noblest  gift  of  God  — an  honest 
man.”  And  yet  he  who  had  held  the  honor  of  his  race  higher  than  his 
life,  was  to-night  facing  dishonor  in  its  most  bitter,  heartbreaking  and 
sordid  form.  As  he  paced  the  floor  of  the  great  librar)'^,  from  the  oak- 
panelled  walls  of  which  hung  pictures,  by  famous  painters,  of  his 
ancestors,  noble  statesmen,  soldiers  and  judges,  or  men,  like  himself, 
content  to  further  the  interests  and  happiness  of  the  people  of  his  estate, 
he  glanced,  from  time  to  time,  at  the  figure  of  a young  man,  doubled 
up  and  half  hidden  in  the  shadows  of  a great  armchair.  The  youth, 
for  he  seemed  little  more,  was  in  evening  dress  with  shirt  front  crumpled 
and  tie  awry.  His  face,  when  a leaping  flame  from  the  wood  fire 
illumined  it,  was  haggard  and  drawn ; around  the  mouth  and  under  the 
eyes,  were  thin,  hard  lines  of  dissipation  and  despair.  The  clean-cut, 
handsome  features,  with  the  strong  chin,  were  startlingly  like  those  of 
the  elder  man ; and,  but  for  a suggestion  of  weakness  about  the  well- 
shaped mouth,  one  would  have  asserted  that  their  characters  were  of  the 
same  quality  and  texture.  “Roger,”  said  the  elder  man,  “when  the 
Almighty  took  from  me  the  noble  woman  whose  life  was  a sacrifice 
to  your  birth,  I thought  that  I had  experienced  the  deepest  sorrow 
that  could  ever  enter  my  lifh.”  He  turned  his  eyes,  as  he  spoke,  to  the 
picture  of  a sweet-faced  girl  occupying  the  space  above  the  great  mantle- 


bi 

O' 

CG 


REV.  R.  A.  TORREY 

The  renowned  Evangelist  and  Temperance  Orator.  Some  of  his  stories  and 
incidents  are  in  this  book. 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


145 


piece.  “But  to-night  I know  that  I did  not,  on  that  sad,  never-to-be- 
forgotten  day,  taste  the  cup  of  bitterness  and  grief  to  its  dregs.  It  had 
been  left  for  you  to  teach  me  that  it  was  for  her  good  that  she  died  and 
for  my  ill  and  yours  that  you  lived.” 

A groan  escaped  the  young  man.  “Father,”  he  whispered,  “have 
pity.” 

“Pity?”  replied  the  other,  “what  pity  have  you  shown  me  or  the 
poor  girl  who,  according  to  your  own  statement,  you  have  driven  to 
seek  protection  and  support  in  a world  of  strangers?  What  pity  or 
thought  for  the  name  you  bear  did  you  show  when  you  forged  my 
name  to  paper  involving  thousands  of  pounds?  What  pity  had  yoit 
for  a single  soul  during  the  past  three  years  of  dissipation,  debauchery 
and  sin?  None!  I paid  your  debts  time  and  again.  I have  prayed 
for  your  reformation  with  tears,  and  agony  of  soul.  I have  borne  with 
you  to  the  uttermost  of  my  forbearance;  now  go  — go,  and  never  let  me 

see  you  or  hear  from  you  again,  unless .”  The  old  man’s  voice 

faltered  a moment  and  then  grew  strong  — “unless  you  prove  yourself 
worthy,  unless  you  do  something  to  once  again  restore  my  confidence 
and  pride  in  you.” 

The  figure  by  the  fire  gave  no  sign  of  comprehension  other  than  an 
involuntary  shudder  which  seemed  to  pass  over  him  like  a cold  breath. 

“Here,”  continued  Sir  Roger,  “here  are  two  hundred  pounds  in 

Bank  of  England  notes ; take  them  and  go.  Go  and ” the  voice  was 

low  and  stern  — “sin  no  more.” 

Silently  the  young  man  arose,  his  face  white  and  strained,  but  in  his 
eyes  gleamed  the  light  of  resolve.  With  unsteady  voice  he  spoke ; 
“Father,  I can’t  take  the  money;  it  — it  would  be  a wrong  start.  Keep  it 
and  give  it  to  her  whom  I have  wronged.  Search  for  her,  and — and  if 
you  find  her,  say  that  I have  gone  to  — to  make  good.  Good-bye,  sir.” 
He  held  out  his  hand  to  his  father,  who,  turning  from  him,  said : “When 
you  are  worthy.” 

The  younger  man  stumbled,  rather  than  walked,  from  the  room,  and 
mechanically  received  his  overcoat  from  the  half-scared-looking  butler, 
passed  out  into  the  night. 

The  crisp,  cold  air  struck  his  heated  brow  with  a cooling  caress, 
steadying  the  shaken  nerves  and  bracing  him  as  a tonic. 

Half  way  down,  the  driveway,  lined  with  a noble  avenue  of  trees, 
he  turned  and  looked  back  at  the  home  of  his  childhood,  the  grand  old 


146 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


mansion  which  had  sheltered  so  many  of  his  honored  ancestors.  Silent 
and  majestic  it  appeared,  bathed  in  the  soft  rays  of  the  full  moon.  He 
could  see  the  lights  in  the  windows  of  the  room  he  had  just  left.  In  the 
moonlight  he  could  discern  another  window,  that  of  his  bedroom,  where, 
as  a little  child,  and  later,  as  a happy  schoolboy  home  for  the  holidays, 
he  had  slept  the  sleep  of  the  innocent  and  undefiled. 

Oh,  how  the  memories  of  those  days,  now  gone  for  ever,  burned  his 
mind  and  soul.  He  could  see  in  the  pages  of  the  past  the  old  dad’s 
proud  and  happy  face  as  he  welcomed'  him  on  his  return  home  for 
those  same  holidays.  Never  once  had  the  dear  old  “guv’nor”  failed  to 
meet  him  at  the  little  country  station;  and  always  was  he  accorded  the 
privilege  of  taking  the  reins  and  driving  the  pair  of  high-stepping  bays 
back  to  the  Towers,  where  the  servants  were  wont  to  gather  in  the 
great  entrance  hall  to  bid  him  welcome  with  smiling  faces  and  respectful 
greeting. 

And  later,  when  his  time  came  to  leave  Rugby,  and  to  enter  college 
at  Oxford,  he  recalled  the  words  with  which  he  bade  his  father  good- 
bye at  the  railroad  station : 

“Never  fear,  dear  old  guv’nor.  I’ll  do  you  credit.  When  my  time 
comes  to  leave  Oxford,  it  will  be  with  a doi:ble  fist  and  a M.  A.  tacked 
onto  my  name.” 

And  the  dear  old  dad,  with  proud  tears  glistening  in  his  eyes,  had 
answered':  “I  know  it,  my  boy ; go  in  and  win,  and . God  bless  you  !” 

Oh,  the  pity  of  it  all.  Where  now  the  high  resolves,  the  proud 
aspirations?  He,  Roger  Carville,  the  pride  and  hope  of  his  father’s 
heart,  was  turned  from  that  same  proud  parent,  from  the  home  ol  his 
youth,  an  outcast  and  a thief. 

How  he  cursed  his  weakness  and  want  of  balance.  He  remembered, 
as  though  ’twere  yesterday,  how,  in  the  exuberance  of  his  budding  man- 
hood, he  had  plunged  into  the  pleasures  and  dissipations  of  the  fast 
student  set  at  Oxford.  Cards,  horse-racing,  drink  and  debt ; he  had  gone 
the  limit.  Again  and  again  he  was  compelled  to  go  to  his  father  for 
assistance  to  meet  these  “debts  of  honor;”  until  at  last  the  generosit}' 
and  patience  of  this  firm  friend  and  fond  parent  was  exhausted,  and  he 
had  been  told  that  the  next  offence  would  mean  his  withdrawal  from 
college  and  all  that  it  held  for  him. 

Then  a new  influence  had  entered  his  life.  A theatrical  company 
came  to  the  town  of  Oxford,  and'  he  received  an  introduction  to  a chorus 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


147 


girl  attached  to  the  combination.  She  was  a sweet,  winsome,  womanly 
girl,  experiencing  for  the  first  time  the  vicissitudes  of  the  player’s  life. 
Nine  months  earlier  her  mother,  the  sole  relation  she  possessed  in  the 
world,  since  the  death  of  her  father,  who  had  been  an  underpaid  curate 
in  a country  town,  had  died,  leaving  her  dependent  on  the  sympathies 
or  otherwise  of  a hard,  cold  world. 

She  had  a nest  egg  of  two  hundred  pounds  — all  that  her  mother  had 
been  able  to  leave  her.  She  was  the  possessor  of  a singularly  beautiful 
contralto  voice,  and,  acting  upon  the  advice  of  acquaintances  in  the 
church  choir,  where  she  was  wont  to  sing  on  Sundays,  she  went  to 
London,  and  for  six  months  studied  voice  culture,  living  modestly  the 
meanwhile  in  furnished  lodgings. 

At  the  end  of  that  time,  her  money  being  nearly  expended,  she  tried 
to  obtain  engagements  at  private  concerts.  Lack  of  influence  and  an 
inability  to  dress  in  an  extravagant  or  costly  manner,  spelt  failure. 
Eventually  she  was  compelled  to  accept  a position  in  the  chorus  of  a 
musical  comedy  company,  where  her  innocence,  refinement  and 
unsophisticated  manners  were  the  butt  of  many  a coarse  and  humiliating 
witticism. 

Her  wondrous  beauty  and  natural  refinement  attracted  Roger  tc 
the  extent  of  his  falling  hopelessly  in  love.  He,  for  the  time  being, 
forsook  the  fast  set  of  Oxford,  and  devoted  himself  to  the  innocent  girl 
who  had  so  aroused  his  admiration.  She,  on  her  part,  was  touched 
by  his  devotion  and  the  air  of  gentlemanly  grace  and  courtesy  with 
which  he  treated  her.  She  seemed,  when  in  his  company,  to  be  living  in 
a different  atmosphere  from  that  of  the  dressing-room  and  stage.  Before 
the  week  of  the  company’s  stay  was  up,  they  were  mutually  in  love ; and 
he,  using  all  the  arguments  of  impetuous  youth,  had  persuaded  her  to 
marry  him  then  and  there ; the  theatrical  company  going  on  to  the  next 
town  without  her.  For  a month  they  were  supremely  happy.  He  took 
rooms  for  her  a little  way  out  of  the  town,  in  an  old-fashioned  house 
kept  by  a maiden  lady  of  small  means.  But  owing  to  the  fact  that  he 
had  not  dared  to  declare  his  marriage  either  to  his  father  or  his  fellow- 
students,  he  ofttimes  found  himself  in  a dilemma  to  explain  his  absence 
from  old  haunts  and  companions.  On  the  fifth  week,  to  avert  suspicion, 
he  went  on  two  occasions  to  the  rooms  of  a college  friend  who  played 
cards  with  boon  companions  for  high  stakes.  Excited  by  the  wine  he 


148 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


drank  there,  Roger  allowed  himself  to  be  drawn  into  a game  of  cards  and 
lost  heavily.  It  was  the  beginning  of  the  end. 

Night  after  night  he  played,  losing  more  and  more,  and  drinking 
furiously  as  he  realized  the  position  he  was  getting  into.  On  several 
occasions  he  returned  to  the  gentle  girl-wife  mad  with  drink  and  disap- 
pointment, and  twice  in  his  delirious  rage  he  had  struck  her  and  accused 
her  of  being  the  cause  of  his  downfall. 

At  last  his  companions  began  to  press  him  for  the  money  which  he 
had  lost  to  them  at  cards.  He  dared  not  go  to  his  father  and  confess, 
so,  after  a last  furious  scene  with  the  sweet  girl  to  whom  he  had  given 
his  name,  he  went  to  his  bachelor  rooms,  and,  crazed  with  drink  and  fear, 
had  signed  his  father’s  name  to  a cheque  for  a large  amount. 

Armed  with  this,  he  started  in  to  play  that  night  more  recklessly 
than  before,  and,  as  usual,  lost.  He  paid  his  debts  with  the  forged  check, 
receiving  the  balance  in  cash.  Three  days  later  he  stumbled  into  his 
wife’s  room  to  find  two  letters,  addressed  to  him,  lying  on  the  dressing- 
table.  Mechanically  he  opened  the  first;  it  was  in  his  wife’s  handwriting, 
and  read  as  follows ; 

“Dear  Roger : I have  tried  so  hard  to  believe  in  you ; I have  prayed 
so  earnestly  for  you.  But  it  seems  hopeless.  After  your  words  to  me 
when  you  left  me  last  night,  when  you  told  me  I was  unworthy  of  you, 
that  I was  standing  in  the  way  of  your  future  career,  I felt  there  was 
nothing  left  for  me  but  to  rid  you  of  my  presence  and  to  seek  my  own 
living.  It  will  be  useless  for  you  to  try  to  find  me,  even  if  you  wished 
to.  In  spite  of  everything,  I still  love  you,  and  shall  always  pray  for 
you,  and  that  some  day  things  will  come  right.  God  bless  you!  Your 
wife,  Mildred.” 

Half  dazed  he  sank  into  a chair.  “The  night  before  last,”  it  said  in 
the  letter.  Then  she,  his  innocent  girl-wife,  had  been  gone  nearly  two 
days.  Good  God ! Alone,  to  battle  her  own  way.  He  was  sober  enough 
now,  as  he  sprang  to  his  feet  in  the  determination  to  rush  forth,  seek 
and  find  her  at  all  costs.  But  what  was  this  ? His  startled  eyes  rested 
on  the  other  letter.  It  was  in  his  father’s  handwriting.  The  blood  which 
had  mounted  to  his  cheeks  in  his  excitement  receded,  leaving  his  face 
deadly  pale.  The  consciousness  of  guilt  was  upon  him;  he  felt  the  icy 
grip  of  fear. 

With  shaking  fingers  he  opened  the  envelope  and  straightened  out 
the  folded  sheet  inside. 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


149 


Without  preface  or  introduction,  it  read  as  follows: 

“It  has  come  to  my  ears  that  you  are  living  with  a woman  calling 
herself  Mrs.  Roger  Carville,  at  the  address  to  which  this  letter  is  directed. 
That  and  a communication^  from  my  bankers  require  an  immediate 
explanation.  Unless  this  is  forthcoming  before  Wednesday  next,  Christ- 
mas Eve,  I shall  be  compelled  to  place  the  matter  in  the  hands  of 
detectives  for  the  honor  of  the  family  and  that  of  your  grieved  and 
broken-hearted  father.  Roger  Carville.” 

Wednesday!  Christmas  Eve!  Why,  why,  this  was  Tuesday  night. 
No  time  to  lose;  what  should  he  do?  Fly?  Suicide?  Was  there  no 
other  way  of  escape? 

No!  no!  he  would  go  to  his  father;  he  had  never  failed  him.  And 
yet,  how  could'  he  confess?  He  would  emigrate.  But  then  — Mildred. 

He  couldn’t  leave  her  to  be  thought  of  as . Quick!  A telegraph 

form!  Ah,  here  it  is:  “Letter  just  received;  coming  immediately; 
Roger.”  Now  a cab.  “Post  office.”  Telegram  dispatched,  there  was 
just  time  to  catch  the  midnight  train  to  London  and  the  early  morning 

one  from  there  to  D shire.  The  journey  passed  as  in  a dream.  It 

was  dark  when,  on  Wednesday  evening,  he  stepped  from  the  train  at 
the  little  West  of  England  station.  The  silent  drive  to  the  house,  and 
then  the  long,  interminable  scene  in  the  library. 

What  was  that?  The  dreamer  started,  and  turned  toward  the  gates 
of  the  avenue,  leading  to  the  high  road.  Through  the  midnight  air  rang 
out  the  Christmas  chimes.  Down  in  the  bell  tower  of  old  Carville  church 
the  ringers  were  pulling  lustily,  telling  the  world  the  news  of  “Peace 
on  earth  and  goodwill  toward  men.”  At  the  gates,  the  old  lodge-keeper 
was  standing  at  his  open  door,  silently  welcoming  in  the  Christmas  morn. 

“God  bless  you.  Master  Roger,  and  a happy  Christmas,”  said  the 
old  man,  as  he  recognized  the  figure  passing  out  through  the  great  gates. 

“Happy  Christmas,”  said  Roger  absently,  and  turning  on  his  heel, 
strode  down  the  moonlit  highway. 

PART  H. 

A year  has  passed.  It  is  once  more  the  eve  of  Christmas.  In  a tiny 
room,  away  up  under  the  eaves  of  a London  lodging-house,  a young 
mother  is  soothing  her  tiny  babe.  “There,  darling,  mamma  will  only 
leave  you  for  a little  while  and  then  return  with  milk  for  her  little  one. 


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STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


Yes,  milk  and  — coals,  baby;  coals  to  make  you  warm.  Oh!  my  little 
love,  to  think  that  mummy  must  go  out  on  this  bitter  night,  and  sell 
her  body  to  keep  her  babe  from  starving.  But  there’s  nothing  else, 
baby.  You  don’t  know,  dear,  how  hard  mummy  has  tried  to  get  work; 
and  now,  now,  dear  mite,  she  must  face  shame  and  dishonor  that  you 
may  live.  O God,  pity  me ; if  it  were  not  for  you,  my  sweet,  death 
would  be  welcome.” 

Tucking  the  thin  covering  closer  around  the  tiny  three-months-old 
baby  boy,  the  mother  silently  left  the  room.  Down  the  dirty,  creaking 
stairs  she  went,  and  out  into  the  street.  Softly  fell  the  snow  in  great 
white  flakes,  deadening  the  sound  of  the  traffic  in  the  mighty  arteries  of 
the  city,  and  rapidly  soaking  through  the  thin  soles  of  her  small  shoes. 

Swiftly  she  made  her  way  along  the  embankment  of  the  black, 
sluggish  Thames,  and  passing  up  one  of  the  side  streets,  emerged  in 
the  current  of  life  and  bright  lights  which  thronged  the  Strand.  Already 
her  scanty  garments  were  becoming  dampened  by  the  thickening  snow- 
flakes. Breathlessly,  with  a tightening  of  the  heart,  she  watched  from 
a doorway  bad  women,  unfortunates  of  the  streets,  accost  men  in  well- 
cut  evening  dress  — sometimes  to  meet  with  a rebuff,  as  often,  after  a 
short  conversation,  to  be  joined  by  the  accosted  and  escorted  to  the 
entrance  of  some  brilliantly-lighted  saloon  or  cafe,  or  after  some  alcoholic 
refreshment,  passing  out  with  flushed  faces,  to  drive  away  with  the 
companion  of  their  sin  in  a quickly-summoned  hansom  cab. 

Could  she? — Dare  she? — 

Twice  she  made  as  though  to  approach  a stranger;  twice  she 
retreated: 

Once  a man,  overflowing  with  alcoholic  exuberance,  made  to  take 
her  arm,  muttering  the  while  through  drink-sodden  lips  a filthy  remark. 
Oh,  she  couldn’t,  she  couldn’t,  she  couldn’t.  And  yet  — Baby! 

O,  better  they  both  die  than  — that!  As  she  stood  in  miserable 
indecision,  a gentle  voice  fell  on  her  ear  and  a soft  touch  rested  on 
her  arm. 

“Sister,  are  you  in  trouble?” 

Turning,  she  looked  into  a pair  of  tender  blue  eyes,  smiling  with 
kindly  interest  from  beneath  a Salvation  Army  bonnet. 

Mildred  — for  it  was  she  — had  often'  seen,  these  lassies  on  their 
errands  of  mercy  and  love,  but  never  gave  them  more  than  a passing 
thought. 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


151 


“No,  no,”  she  answered.  “I’m  — I’m  quite  all  right,  thank  you.” 

“Is  that  the  truth?”  asked  the  Salvation  lassie.  “I  think  you  are 
in  trouble;  won’t  you  let  me  help  you?” 

“I  — oh,  I”  — and  then  the  poor  wounded  spirit  broke  down,  and 
before  Mildred  knew  what  had  happened,  she  was  sobbing  out  her  story 
on  the  sympathetic  breast  of  her  listener.  Within  an  hour,  Mildred  and 
her  babe  were  installed  in  comfort  and  warmth  within  the  walls  of  one 
of  The  Army’s  Rescue  Homes. 

Her  story  verified,  the  tender-hearted  matron  interested  herself  on 
Mildred’s  behalf  to  such  purpose,  that  before  two  months  had  passed 
she  found  herself  engaged  as  companion  and  secretary  to  Lady  Z.,  wife 
of  the  newly-appointed  Governor  of  a distant  colony.  Lady  Z.  knew  her 
story  from  start  to  finish,  and  her  kindly  woman’s  heart  rebelled  at  the 
thought  of  separating  mother  and  child ; so  that,  after  much  coaxing 
and  gentle  feminine  persuasion,  she  gained  the  consent  of  her  good- 
natured  husband  to  include  both  Mildred  and  Baby  Roger  in  the 
Government  House  party  sailing  for  the  Golonies.  During  the  voyage 
and  once  duly  installed  in  the  Government  House,  Baby  Roger  quickly 
became  the  ruler  and  gurgling  tyrant  of  the  household.  Once  more  the 
joy  of  life  and  living  had  entered  the  breast  of  his  gentle  mother.  During 
all  this  time  never  once  had  she  heard  from  or  of,  her  husband ; Roger 
was  as  one  dead. 

She  never  ceased  to  pray  for  him  and  to  hope  that  one  day  he 
would  be  restored  to  her,  a changed  man. 

^ :1c  >(:  sic  ^ 

Three  years  passed  happily  and  uneventfully  in  the  sunny  city,  when 
one  morning,  among  his  mail,  Lord  Z.  found  a letter  from  his  old  friend, 
Sir  Roger  Garville. 

The  letter  stated  that  since  the  disappearance  of  his  only  son,  he  had 
been  in  indifferent  health.  He  had  tried  long  and  unsuccessfully  to  trace 
either  Roger  or  the  girl  whom  he  married  secretly.  The  worry  had 
undermined  his  naturally  strong  constitution  and  his  doctors  ordered  a 
complete  change  of  scene  and  the  effects  of  a sea  voyage.  Might  he, 
therefore,  consider  himself  welcome,  if  he  paid  a visit  to  his  old  friend 
in  the  Antipodes? 

The  Governor’s  reply,  after  a short  consultation  with  his  wife,  was 
in  the  form  of  a cablegram  which  read' as  follows:  “Delighted;  come 
at  once  and  stay  as  long  as  you  like.”  Mildred  was  not  taken  into  the 


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STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


secret.  Lady  Z.,  with  a woman’s  natural  love  for  a mystery,  commanded 
silence  on  the  subject  of  Sir  Roger’s  visit,  trusting  to  her  native  wit  to 
make  the  occasion  of  the  meeting  between  him  and  his  daughter-in-law 
one  of  peace  and  mutual  reconciliation.  In  due  course  Sir  Roger  arrived 
and  was  cordially  welcomed  by  his  old  friends.  Mildred  and  her  boy, 
now  a sturdy  young- Colonial  nearing  the  manly  age  of  four,  were  visiting 
friends  of  Lady  Z.’s  some  little  way  from  the  city.  It  was  three  days 
after  Sir  Roger’s  arrival  that  they  returned  to  the  Government  House. 

Sir  Roger  was  sitting  on  the  veranda  as  the  carriage  containing 
Mildred  and  her  boy  pulled  up  at  the  entrance. 

Mildred,  looking  sweet  and  winsome  in  her  whue  frock,  passed  in 
through  the  open  doorway.  Master  Roger,  with  the  assurance  and 
natural  curiosity  of  “nearly  four,”  called  after  her:  “Tummin’  d’ectly, 
mumsey,”  and  proceeded  to  investigate  and  examine  the  strange,  sad, 
white-haired  gentleman  who  was  quietly  smoking  his  cigar  in  the  rocking 
chair. 

“How-do-you-do?”  he  asked  gravely,  plunging  his  hands  into  the 
pockets  of  his  small,  white  sailor  suit.  “I  don’t  fink  I’ve  seen  you  ’fore. 
I’m  nearly  four  years  old;  how  old  is  you  — no,  I mean  am  you  — ‘is’ 
is  wrong,  ’cause  mumsey  said  so.”  All  this  was  rattled  off  in  one  breath, 
and  he  paused  with  a very  red  face  and  large,  inquiring  eyes  for  the 
answer. 

“Well,  young  man,”  said  the  strange  “gen’l’m,”  “I’m  very  well, 
thank  you.  You  are  right;  we  haven’t  met  before,  and  I am  more  than 
four  years  old.  Now,  perhaps,  you’ll  be  good  enough  to  tell  me  your 
name,  also  why  you  left  your  sister  just  now  to  come  and  talk  to  me?'’ 

“Dat  wasn’t  my  sister;  haven’t  dot  a sister;  and,  ’sides,  I don’t  like 
girls;  dat  was  my  mumsey!” 

“Oh,  I beg  your  pardon.”  The  kind  eyes  twinkled.  “Now,  may 
I ask  your  name?” 

“Oh!  I fordot.  I beg  your  pardon.  My  name  is  Wodger  Car- 
ville  — what’s  yours?” 

“Good  heavens  ! Say  it  again,  child,  say  it  again !” 

“I  fink  you’re  vewy  wude  to  shout,”  answered  the  wee  man  with  a 
tiny  dignified  frown,  “I  said  my  name  is  Wodger  Carville !” 

“Thank  God !”  said  the  stranger,  “and  — and  that  young  lady  in 
white  is  your ?” 

“Dat’s  my  mumsey,  I — I take  care  of  her.”  And  the  baby  lips 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


153 


quivered  tremulously  at  the  suddenly  conceived  notion  that  this  strange, 
white-haired  man  might  want  to  harm  his  “mumsey.” 

“Oh,  little  lad,  little  lad,”  said  the  stranger  as,  lifting  Baby  Roger 
in  his  arms,  he  strode  into  the  open  hall. 

“Wot  ’r’  you  kyin’  for?”  inquired  the  young  man,  “nearly  four.” 

“For  joy,  laddie,  for  joy,”  whispered  the  old  man  huskily. 

We  will  draw  a veil  over  that  meeting  between  the  old  man  and  his 
newly-discovered  daughter.  His  joy  was  wonderful  when  he  found  and 
fathomed  her  sweet  nature.  Master  Roger’s  joy  was  also  intense  when 
he  realized  the  “strange  gene’l’m  was  a real  live  gran’pa,”  and  one  who 
never  tired  of  playing  “Piggy  backs”  and  “Ride-a-cock-horse.” 

Lady  Z.  said  to  her  husband,  a week  later,  “I  knew  he  would  be 
bound  to  love  her  as  his  own  daughter,  if  once  they  met.” 

Lord  Z.  looked  at  her  with  admiration  and  vowed  to  himself  that 
his  wife  was  the  most  wonderful  and  clever  little  woman  in  the  world. 

PART  III. 

Away  up  in  a mining  camp  of  the  Goldfields,  two  men  were  taking 
their  “billy”  and  tea  outside  their  miner’s  tent. 

One  was  a man  of  about  forty,  with  iron-gray  hair  and  bronzed  face, 
showing  where  the  thick  beard  was  not.  His  expression  was  one  of 
quiet  determination,  combined  with  the  softened  lines  of  one  who  had 
passed  through  much  disappointment  and  come  through  the  fire  trusting 
in  a Higher  Power  for  wisdom  and  strength. 

The  other  was  a tall,  magnificently  built  man  not  yet  out  of  his 
twenties.  His  face,  with  sunbrowned,  handsome  features,  had  the 
appearance  of  one  who  carried  a great  sorrow.  His  gray  eyes  constantly 
wore  a far-away,  strained,  hopeless  expression  like  unto  that  of  a faith- 
ful dog  discovered  in  wrongdoing  and  undergoing  its  just  punishment.' 
Just  now  they  burned  with  a fierce,  resentful  light. 

“It’s  no  good,”  said  the  owner.  “We’ve  been  plugging  away  at  this 
old  mine  for  nearly  two  years  now.  And  what  have  we  got?  What 
are  we  worth?  About  five  hundred  pounds  apiece.” 

“Laddie,  a tell  ye,  theere’s  a sicht  o’  gold'  awa  doon ; an’  moR 
Rogers,  ye  maist  hae’  patience,”  replied'  the  elder  man. 

“I  tell  you  it’s  no  good,  Scottie,”  answered  the  man  addressed  aS 
Rogers,  with  an  impatient  gesture.  “I’ve  tried  to  believe  in  the  old 
claim;  I’ve  tried  to  play  the  game  with  you  and  — and  others.”  The 


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STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


gray  eyes  took  on  the  far-away  look.  “But  I can’t  do  it  any  longer. 
Three  days  from  now  it’ll  be  Christmas.  I’m  going  down  into  the  city, 
and  try  to  drown  my  sorrows  for  a week.  It’ll  be  the  first  drop  for  four 
years,  but  I must  do  it  or  go  mad.  I’ll  come  back,  my  dear  old  pard, 
never  fear” 

“Dinna  dae  it,  laddie;  dinna  dae  it.” 

“I  must,  Scottie  — I must!” 

^ ^ ‘ 

Two  evenings  later  the  one  who  called  himself  Rogers  stepped  from 
the  train  at  the  railway  terminus  in  the  great  city,  the  centre  of  activities. 

It  was  Christmas  Eve. 

The  air  was  intolerably  hot.  The  day  had  been  one  of  oppressing 
closeness.  Should  he  take  a drink  — his  first  for  four  years  — or  should 
he  seek  a hotel  and  freshen  up  after  his  tiring  journey?  He  decided  on 
the  latter  course.  Once  settled  in  his  hotel  he  had  a bath,  and  throwing 
himself  on  the  bed  “for  forty  winks,”  as  he  told  himself,  he  fell  into  a 
heavy  slumber. 

It  was  some  hours  later  that  he  awoke  with  a start.  He  looked  at 
his  watch.  It  was  approaching  midnight.  Suddenly  it  struck  him  as 
curious  that  he  should  be  able  to  discern  that  time,  since  his  gas  jet 
was  not  lighted.  Glancing  at  the  window,  he  noticed  a red  glow  entering 
and  illuminating  the  room. 

With  a spring  he  was  off  the  bed.  Rushing  to  his  window  he  beheld 
a sight  that  momentarily  chilled  the  blood  in  his  veins.  The  big,  fashion- 
able hotel  across  the  street  was  one  sheet  of  flame.  Downstairs  he  flew 
and  standing  in  the  doorway  watched,  awestruck,  the  conflagration  before 
him. 

As  he  gazed  at  the  terror-stricken  guests  rushing  pellmell  through 
the  open  hatl  door  of  the  doomed  building,  his  heart  gave  a sudden 
bound.  For,  staggering  out  into  the  street,  he  beheld  his  father,  his 
dear  old  guv’nor  whom  he  had  not  Seen  for  exactly  four  years.  As  he 
sprang  to  meet  him,  a might)'-  shout  arose  from  the  crowd,  and  looking 
up,  he  saw  standing  at  the  open  bedroom  window  on  the  third  floor  of 
the  blazing  building  — his  wife.  There  was  no  mistaking  her.  The 
hungry  flames  mounting  higher  and  higher,  lighted  up  her  beautiful  face, 
as  with  a child  in  her  arms  she  looked  appealingly  down  at  the  helpless 
crowd  beneath. 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


155 


A fireman  was  bravely  battling  up  the  fire-escape.  A groan  came 
from  the  crowd  as  the  poor  fellow,  overcome  by  tne  smoke  and  fumes, 
fell  back  into  the  arms  of  the  man  behind  and  was  taken  down  by  him. 

“Stand  back,  we  can  do  nothing,”  cried  the  chief  of  the  fire  brigade. 

And  the  crowd  stood  in  awe-stricken  silence,  awaiting  with  palsied 
hearts  the  seemingly  inevitable. 

But  what  was  this?  A shout  went  up,  another  and  yet  another, 
as  the  breathless  multitude  watched  a man,  strong  and  supple,  mount 
the  ladder,  rung  after  rung,  toward  the  window  where  the  woman  and 
child  were  standing. 

Would  he  do  it? 

Could  he  do  it? 

A groan  arose  as  he  was  seen  to  falter  and  then  disappear  from 
view  in  a blinding  cloud  of  smoke  and  flame. 

A cheer,  a roar;  he  has  gained  the  window  ledge  — he  is  inside! 

A frightened  hush  succeeds  as  all  three  retreat  inward  from  the 
view  of  the  crowd. 

Would  he  be  mad  enough  to  try  to  force  his  way  down  the  stairway? 
It  was  a sheet  of  flame  and  meant  certain  death. 

No.  There  he  is  again,  beckoning  to  the  firemen.  Ah!  they  under- 
stand, and  train  a spray  of  water  onto  the  escape.  A roar,  then  again 
silence. 

He  has  them  strapped  to  him,  enveloped  in  a blanket. 

Can  he  hold  them?  One  arm  only  has  he  with  which  to  cling  to  the 
ladder.  Down,  foot  by  foot,  carefully  feeling  his  way,  he  moves  toward 
safety. 

The  crowd  is  afraid  to  breathe. 

The  firemen  are  doing  their  work  well. 

He  will  — he  will  — he  has. 

Hurrah  ! Hurrah ! The  pent-up  feelings  of  the  crowd  burst  forth  and 
men  are  shaking  hands  and  hugging  each  other  hysterically. 

“Who’s  the  man?”  “Does  any  one  know  him?”  “He’s  a hero!”  and 
so  they  comment. 

Meanwhile  friendly  hands  had  quickly  carried  the  rescued  and  res- 
cuer to  a nearby  house,  where  their  burns  and  injuries  were  skillfully 
tended  by  eager  physicians. 

Two  weeks  later  an  interesting  and  wonderfully  happy  group  might 
have  been  seen  seated  around  the  invalid-chair  of  the  man  who  dared. 


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STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


“Roger,  my  son,”  said  the  white-haired  man  (a  very  much  happier 
man  than  when  we  last  saw  him),  “You  have  made  your  atonement. 
You  have  lived  a clean  life  since  that  night  four  years  ago,  when  I was 
wicked  enough  to  turn  you  away  from  my  home  and  heart.  I,  too,  have 
suffered  for  my  pride,  my  boy.” 

“But,  dear  guv’nor,  about  the  life  I led  — I — that  night  I came  into 
town  to ” 

“Yes,  we  know,  ‘Scottie’  told  us  when  he  came  to  town  the  follow- 
ing day  to  save  you,  to  tell  you  that  your  claim  has,  at  last,  proved  to 
be  one  of  the  best  in  the  camp ” 

“You  don’t  mean? ” 

“Yes,  it  is  true,  dear,”  suddenly  interrupted  the  soft  voice  of  Mil- 
dred, “your  claim  is  full  of  the  golden  treasure.” 

“It  is  nothing  to  the  treasures  I have  found  in  the  city,”  answered 
Roger,  as  he  turned  his  glistening  eyes  to  his  dear  ones  in  turn.  “Thank 
God,  Lady  Z.  had  to  send  you  to  the  hotel  to  make  room  for  her  Christ- 
mas guests.” 

“Yes,”  agreed  a small  voice,  “t’ank  Dod !” — War  Cry 

THE  PAUPER  WOMAN’S  SPEECH. 

At  a certain  meeting  in  Pennsylvania,  the  question  came  up,  whether 
any  person  should  be  licensed  to  sell  rum.  The  clergyman,  the  deacon 
and  physician,  strange  as  it  may  appear,  all  favored  license.  One  man 
only  spoke  against  it,  because  of  the  mischief  it  did.  The  question  was 
about  to  be  put,  when  all  at  once  there  aYose  from  a corner  a miserable 
old  woman.  She  was  thinly  clad,  and  her  appearance  indicated  the 
utmost  wretchedness,  and  that  her  mortal  career  had  almost  closed. 
After  a moment  of  silence,  during  which  all  eyes  were  fixed  on  her, 
she  stretched  her  body  to  its  utmost  height,  and  then  her  arms  to  their 
greatest  length,  and  raising  her  voice  to  a shrill  pitch,  she  called  to  look 
upon  her.  “Yes,”  she  said,  “look  upon  me  and  hear  me.  All  that  the 
last  speaker  has  said  relative  to  temperate  drinking  as  the  father  of 
drunkenness,  is  true.  All  drinking  of  alcoholic  poison  as  a beverage  is 
excess.  Look  upon  me!  You  all  know  me,  or  at  least  once  did.  You 
all  know  that  I was  once  mistress  of  the  best  place  in  town ; )"ou  all 
know,  too,  that  I had  one  of  the  best  and  most  devoted  husbands;  you 
all  know  that  I had  five  noble-hearted,  industrious  boys.  Where  are 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


157 


they  now?  Doctor,  where  are  they  now?  You  all  know;  you  know  they 
lie  in  a row,  side  by  side,  in  yonder  churchyard,  every  one  of  them  filled 
a drunkard’s  grave.  They  were  all  taught  to  believe  that  temperate 
drinking  was  safe ; that  excess  only  ought  to  be  avoided,  and  they  never 
acknowledged  excess.  They  quoted  you,  and  you,  and  you,”  pointing 
her  finger  to  the  minister,  deacon,  and  doctor,  “as  authority.’  They 
thought  themselves  safe  under  such  teachers.  But  with  dismay  and 
horror,  I saw  the  gradual  change  come'  over  my  family  and  prospects. 
I felt  that  we  were  all  to  be  oyerwhelmed  in  one  common  ruin.  I tried 
to  break  the  spell  in  which  the  idea  of  the  benefits  of  temperate  drinking 
had  involved  my  husband  and  sons.  I begged,  I prayed,  but  the  odds 
were  against  me.  The  minister  said  that  the  poison  that  was  destroying 
my  husband  and  boys  was  a good  creature  of  God ; the  deacon  who  sits 
under  the  pulpit  there,  sold  them  the  poison,  and  took  our  homd  to  pay 
the  bills ; the  doctor  said  a little  was  good,  and  excess  only  ought  to  be 
avoided.  My  poor  husband  and  sons  fell  into  the  snare  and  they  could 
not  escape,  and  one  after  another  was  conveyed  to  the  sorrowful  grave 
of  a drunkard. 

“Now,  look  at  me  again!  You  probably  may  see  me  for  the  last 
time ; my  sands  have  almost  run.  I have  dragged  my  exhausted  frame 
from  my  present  home  — your  poorhouse  — to  warn  you  all;  to  warn 
you,  false  teachers  of  God’s  word !”  and  with  her  arms  flung  high,  and 
her  tall  frame  stretched  to  its  utmost,  and  her  voice  raised  to  an 
unearthly  pitch,  she  exclaimed:  “I  shall  soon  stand  before  the  judg- 
ment seat  of  God,  I shall  meet  you  there,  you  false  guides,  and  be 
witness  against  you  all !” 

The  miserable  old  woman  vanished,  a dead  silence  pervaded  the 
assembly;  the  minister,  deacon  and  the  physician  hung  their  heads, 
and  the  president  of  the  court  put  the  question : “Shall  any  license  be 
granted  for  the  sale  of  intoxicating  liquors?”  The  unanimous  response 
was,  “NO !” 

If  all  paupers  could  speak,  if  maniacs  could  testify,  if  the  65,000 
prisoners  in  this  land  could  tell  of  their  temptation,  sin  and  ruin ; if 
the  wives  and  children  of  living  drunkards,  and  the  widows  and  orphans 
of  the  dead  ones,  could  come  before  us;  if  the  countless  tenants  of 
drunkard’s  graves  could  appear  and  exhibit  their  fleshless  forms,  and 
lift  up  their  skeleton  hands,  and  tell  how  they  were  tempted,  ruined 
and  destroyed  — it  would  need  no  further  argument  or  plea  to  arouse 


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STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


all  good  and  honest  men,  to  warn,  and  testify,  and  denounce,  and 
destroy  with  utter  destruction,  a business  which  curses  humanity,  and 
is  accursed  of  the  Most  High  God.— Tract. 

YOU  NEVER  TOLD  US. 

He  stood  in  the  door  of  the  Sabbath-school  room,  waiting  to  finish 
a conversation  with  a lady  who  held  a boy  by  the  hand. 

“Don’t  you  think  it  would  be  well  to  let  the  scholars  take  part  in 
some  exercise  on  the  subject  of  temperance,  Mr.  Johnson?”  asked  the 
lady.  “You  are  the  superintendent,  and  if  you  should  assign  the  scholars 
any  texts  or  verses  about  the  subject,  I know  they  would  be  glad  to 
get  them.  You  would,  Eddie,  wouldn’t  you?” 

“What!  Say  something,  say  a verse?”  asked  the  boy,  one  of  the 
kind  whose  eyes  are  forever  snapping,  hands  forever  moving,  head  for- 
ever turning,  and  to  whom  all  occupation  is  a delight  because  a con- 
stitutional necessity.  “I  would,  and  I know  lots  of  others  would  speak.” 

“Temperance,  did  you  say?”  inquired  Mr.  Johnson,  so  coldly,  that 
Mrs.  Atwood  felt  a shiver  at  once. 

“Yes,  sir.” 

“Ahem!  — it  is  not  judicious,  I think,  to  speak  on  controverted  sub- 
jects in  the  Sabbath-school,  and  where  a difference  of  opinion  exists. 
I feel  that  it  is  better  for  people  to  think  about  temperance  as  they 
please.  But  it  is  time  for  me  to  call  the  school  together,”  and  the 
speaker  moved  along  the  entry  like  an  iceberg  drifting  out  of  sight. 

“What  did  he  say,  mother?”  asked  Eddie.  “That  people  had  better 
think  about  temperance  as  they  please?” 

Mrs.  Atwood  was  so  absorbed  in  her  painful  thoughts  that  she  did 
not  pay  attention  to  the  question. 

Days,  weeks,  months,  even  years  slipped  by.  A “hard  winter” 

visited  the  city  of  N . There  was  hardness  in  every  direction.  The 

severe  cold  that  prevailed  so  long,  seemed  to  freeze  up  everj-thing.  It 
reached  the  money  bags  in  the  vaults,  and  the  tills  in  the  counters,  and 
the  purses  in  the  pockets  of  capitalists,  ice  forming  everywhere  and 
stopping  the  flow  of  money.  At  least  a very  scanty  stream  of  the  article' 
dribbled  into  one  poor  home  in  a tall,  gaunt  tenement  house.  A mother 
was  there,  watching  by  the  bed  of  a consumptive  son,  a young  man. 

“A  cold  night,”  he  said,  “mother?” 

“Yes,  it  is.” 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


159 


“What  makes  you  think  it  is  snowing?  Seems  as  if  it  were  getting 
into  bed,”  he  said,  in  a hoarse  whisper. 

“It  is  snowing.” 

She  went  to  the  window  and  looked  down  into  the  street.  A rough 
wind  was  driving  the  flakes  in  clouds  through  the  streets,  threatening 
to  smother  the  lamp  post  and  the  very  houses. 

“I  can’t  seem  to  see  anyone  coming,”  she  muttered.  “It  is  so  cold 
here.” 

“I  can’t  tell  whether  it  is  the  snow  or  the  serpents,”  said  the  son,  in 
a loud  whisper. 

“He  is  wandering  again,”  said  the  mother,  bending  over  the  bed. 

“It  will  be  warm  soon,  I think.” 

“Yes,  warm  soon  — soon  — ha!  ha!” 

His  laugh  was  that  of  a mind  breaking  like  a ship  from  all  moorings 
and  drifting  out  into  a dark  sea. 

That  evening  a note  had  been  left  at  the  door  of  a gentleman  in 
the  neighborhood,  and  it  read  thus: 

“There  is  a sick  man,  a consumptive,  living  in  the  district  at  No.  182 
Putnam  Street.  They  are  pretty  destitute,  and  if  you  could  get  them 
some  wood  and  coal  to-night,  I know  it  would  be  acceptable.” 

“A  note  from  our  minister,”  said  Mr.  Berry.  “He  has  been  calling 
there  to-day,  probably.  I will  take  some  wood  and  coal  with  me  and 
go  at  once.  I wpnder  if  my  guest  wouldn’t  like  to  come  with  me?  He 
will  have  some  idea  of  one  of  our  poor  districts.” 

The  gentleman  visiting  Mr.  Berry  said  he  would  like  to  go,  and  the 
two  started  off,  a basket  of  coal  and  wood  hanging  on  Mr.  Berry’s  arm. 
Through  the  snow  they  tugged,  and  then  they  climbed  a dark  flight  of 
stairs  leadine  up  somewhere  from  the  black  hole  labeled  “182.” 

“Whew!  how  cold.  We’ll  have  a fire  at  once,”  said  Mr.  Berry,  as 
he  stooped  over  the  stove  in  the  consumptive’s  room,  quickly  changing 
the  mute,  rusty  piece  of  iron  into  a creature  that  laughed  and  sang, 
chuckled  and  roared,  flashing  out  into  the  room  a cheery  warmth.  The 
companion  of  Mr.  Berry  had  gone  to  the  sick  young  man’s  bed: 

“I  am  sorrv  you  are  sick,”  said  the  visitor. 

“Thank  you.  but  the  snakes  are  bad.” 

“He  is  wandering,  sir,”  exclaimed  the  mother.  “But  you  wait  a 
moment.  His  mind  will  come  back  again.” 

The  young  man  had  fastened  his  dark,  sunken  eyes  on  the  stranger. 


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STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


and  seemed  to  be  making  an  eftort  to  recognize  him.  It  was  a painful 
effort.  It  was  hard  to  bring  back  the  ship  that  had  broken  from  its 
moorings,  drifting  off  into  the  wildness  and  blackness  of  the  sea. 

“Don’t  — don’t  I know  you?”  he  asked. 

“Perhaps  so.” 

“Did  you  keep  Sabbath-school  — once?” 

“Yes.” 

“Did  — Eddie  — Atwood  — ever  — go  to  you?” 

“Oh,  yes,  I remember  him.” 

“Didn’t  — you  — once  — say  — you  wouldn’t  have  a temperance  ser- 
vice— and  people  — had  better  think  — as  they  please?” 

“I  dare  say.  People  were  rather  fanatical  on  the  subject.” 

“I  am  — Eddie  — Atwood — .” 

“I  wouldn’t,”  said  his  mother.  “It  will  make  you  cough.” 

“Just  — raise  — me  — once.  I only  say  — it — Mr.  Johnson  — for 
you  may  still  — be  superintendent  — and  will  know  — what  — to  — do  — 
another  — time.  I acted  as  you  advised  — and  — did  — as  I pleased.  You 
never  — told  us  of  — the  evil  of  strong  drink.  I ruined  — myself  — in 
that  way,  and  — here  — I am  — .” 

“Oh,  don’t  don’t,  Edward!  Oh,  quick,  quick!  Help!”  screamed  the 
mother. 

But  no  help  could  reach  Eddie  Atwoed.  His  soul  had  drifted  out 
upon  the  sea  from  which  no  vessel  ever  returns. — Way  of  Faith. 

WHAT  CAME  TO  BILLY’S  HOUSE. 

Dilly  was  perched  on  a fence  post,  her  light  hair  flying  about  her 
face  and  her  little  hands  clasped  behind  her  back.  The  small  toes  that 
peeped  through  her  ragged  shoes  were  red  also,  for  the  day  was  cold, 
but  Dilly  was  used  to  such  trifles. 

Toddles,  the  baby,  who  could  not  climb  the  fence,  contented  himself 
with  looking  through.  He  was  bundled  up  in  an  old  shawl,  and,  if  the 
round  face  that  peeped  through  the  fence  rails  was  roughened  by  the 
chill  wind,  he,  like  Dilly,  had  grown  accustomed  to  such  discomforts. 

It  occurred  to  Freddy  Burr,  in  the  next  yard,  that  their  situation 
was  scarcely  agreeable.  He  looked  up  from  the  stick  he  was  trying 
to  split  with  his  new  hatchet,  and  asked : 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


161 


“What  makes  you  sit  up  there  such  a day  as  this?  Why  don’t  you 
go  into  the  house  and  keep  warm?”  ' 

“ ’Cause  I’d  rather  stay  here  and  watch  you,”  said  Dilly,  serenely. 
“ ’Tain’t  no  fun  in  the  house.” 

“Well,  I wouldn’t  think  it  was  any  fun  out  here,  I can  tell  you, 
if  I didn’t  have  a warm  coat  and  scarf  and  these  thick  boots,”  remarked 
Freddy. 

Dilly  looked  at  them,  and  an  odd,  vague  wonder  awoke,  as  she 
did  so,  and  grew  more  distinct,  until  presently  it  took  shape  in  words. 

“Why  don’t  I have  such  things,  too,  Freddy  Burr  — shoes  and  new 
clothes  and  something  to  wear  on  my  head?”  ) 

“ ’Cause  your  father  drinks  ’em  up,”  answered  Freddy  promptly 

“No,  he  don’t,  either,”  said  Dilly;  “folks  can’t  drink  such  things. 
Where  do  you  get  yours?” 

“My  father  buys  ’em  for  me ; and'  the  reason  yours  don’t  get  any 
for  you,  is  ’cause  they  all  go  into  old  Barney’s  rum  barrels  down  at 
the  corner.  That’s  the  way  of  it,  true  as  you  live,  Dilly  Keene,  and  it’s 
awful  mean,  too,”  declared  Freddy,  growing  indignant. 

Then  a voice  from  the  pretty  house  beyond  called  Freddy,  and  he 
ran  in,  while  Dilly  and  Toddles,  with  their  amusement  of  watching 
ended,  turned  slowly  away.  Dilly  surveyed  the  baby  and  herself  thought- 
fully, and  sat  down  upon  an'  old  log  to  meditate.  If  what  Freddy  Burr 
had  told  her  was  true,  something  ought  to  be  done  about  it;  and  the 
longer  she  pondered,  the  more  fully  she  became  convinced  that  she  had 
heard  the  truth. 

“ ’Cause  other  folks  has  things  and  we  don’t,  and  it  must  be  ours 
go  somewhere,”  she  reasoned.  “They  can’t  be  any  good  there,  either. 
I’m  just  sure  they  can’t.  Mebby  I’ve  got  a hood  — mebby  it  would  be 
a nice  red  one,  pretty  and  warm.  Wish  I had  it  now.  Wish  Toddles 
had ” 

She  stopped,  as  a brilliant  plan  flashed  suddenly  through  her  brain. 
Wouldn’t  her  mother  be  surprised  if  she  could  do  that  — poor  mother 
who  was  out  washing  andi  would  be  so  tired  when  she  came  home  at 
night. 

“Toddles,  let’s  do  it!”  she  said,  springing  up,  excitedly.  “Let’s  go 
j an’  see  if  we  can  get  some  of  ’em.” 

“Yah!”  answered  Toddles,  contentedly;  and,  taking  his  hand,  Dilly 
I opened  the  creaking  gate  and  led  the  way  down  the  street. 


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STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


There  were  a number  of  men  in  the  store  at  the  corner  — a queer 
store,  with  a curtain  across  the  lower  half  of  its  front  window.  Dilly 
saw  them  when  the  door  opened,  but  she  was  a determined  little  body 
when  she  had  decided  on  the  proper  thing  to  do.  So  she  only  clasped 
Toddles’  hand  closer  and  walked  in  and  up  to  the  counter,  making  an 
extra  effort  to  speak  distinctly  betause  her  heart  beat  so  fast. 

“Please,  sir,  have  you  got  anything  of  ours  a soak  here?” 

There  was  an  instant’s  silence,  and  then  a shout  of  laughter  from 
the  men.. 

“Well,  now,  that’s  a neat  way  of  putting  it.  Hey,  Keene,  these 
youngsters  of  yours  want  to  know  if  Barney  has  you  in  soak  here?” 

An  old  slouched  hat  behind  the  stove  was  raised  a little,  but  there 
was  no  other  sign  that  the  man  heard. 

Dilly  shrank  back  abashed. 

“Oh,  I didn’t  mean  him !” 

“What  did  you  mean,  then?”  asked  a coarse,  red-faced  man,  advanc-  I 
ing  behind  the  bar,  and  speaking  in  tones  not  at  all  gentle  or  amiable,  j 

“Shoes  and  coats  and  such  things,”  faltered  Dilly.  “Hoods  — I’m  | 
afraid  it’s  spoiled  with  the  whiskey,  but  mebby  ma  could  wash  it  out. 
Wouldn’t  you  take  some  of  them  out  of  your  barrel,  Mr.  Barney?  We 
need  ’em  awful  bad.” 

“I  should  think  as  much,”  muttered  one  of  the  bystanders,  sur- 
veying the  two  dilapidated  figures ; but  Mr.  Barney’s  wrath  was  rising. 

“What  barrel?  Who  sent  you  here?”  he  demanded  angrily. 

“Your  rum  barrel,”  answered  Dilly,  standing  her  ground  desperatel3% 
though  with  a little  catch  in  her  breath  that  was  just  ready  to  break  into 
a sob.  “Ma  works  hard  all  the  time,  and  she  looks  so  sorry;  and  we 
don’t  have  any  nice  dinners  at  our  house  like  Freddy  Burr’s;  and  no 
new  shoes,  nor  caps,  nor  anything.  I asked  Freddy  where  our  good 
things  went  to,  ’cause  they  don’t  come  to  our  house,  and  he  said  you 
had  ’em  in  your  barrels.  Please  take  some  of  ’em  out,  Mr.  Barney. 
I’m  sure  it  can’t  make  anybody’s  drink  taste  a bit  better  to  have  a poor 
little  boy’s  and  girl’s  new  shoes  and  dresses  and  everything  in  the  barrel.” 

“You’re  right  there,  sissy.  It’s  nigh  about  spoiled  the  taste  of  1 
mine,”  said  one  of  the  group,  putting  down,  the  glass  with  a perplexed  ( 
look. 

But  the  barkeeper’s  look  was  wrathful.  “We’ve  had  enough  of  this  i 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


163 


nonsense.  Now  leave,  you  rag  mufifins,  as  fast  as  your  legs  can  carry 
you,  and  never  let  me  catch  you  inside  these  doors  again.” 

He  stepped  toward  them.  The  man  behind  the  stove  suddenly  arose. 

“Take  care,  Barney;  you’d  better  not  touch  them.”  There  was  fire 
in  the  eyes  under  the  old  slouch  hat  before  which  Mr.  Barney  drew  back. 

Both  children  were  crying  by  this  time,  but  the  father  took  a hand 
of  each  and  passed  into  the  street. 

Two  weeks  later  Dilly  completed  the  story  to  Freddy  Burr.  “See 
here,”  she  said,  pushing  the  toes  of  a stout  pair  of  new  shoes  through 
the  fence,  “and  here,”  bobbing  up  for  an  instant  to  show  the  hood  that 
covered  her  yellow  hair. 

“Where  did  you  get  ’em?”  asked  Freddy. 

“Why,  pa  worked  and  bought  ’em,  and  brought  ’em  home,  and 
they  didn’t  get  into  nobody’s  barrel,”  explained  Dilly,  with  great  pride 
and  little  regard  for  grammar.  “You  see,  the  billennium  has  come  to 
our  house.  The  ‘billennium’ — it’s  a pretty  long  word,’  said  Dilly,  com- 
placently, “but  it  means  ‘good  times.’  It  was  just  this  way,  Freddy, 
When  you  told  me  Mr.  Barney  had  all  our  nice  things  in  his  barrel,  I 
just  went  right  down  there  and  asked  him  for  ’em,  me  and  Toddles.” 

“You  didn’t!”  exclaimed  Freddy. 

“Did  too!”  declared  Dilly,  “Well,  he  wouldn’t  give  me  one  of 
’em,  and  was  just  as  cross  as  anything.  So  then  pa  got  up  from  the 
stove  and  walked  home  with  us.  He  didn’t  scold  a bit;  he  just  sat  down 
before  the  fire  and  thinked  and  thinked.  At  last  he  put  his  hand  in  one 
pocket,  but  there  was  not  anything  there.  Then  he  put  his  hand  in  the 
other  pocket,  and  found  ten  cents,  and  went  out  and  bought  some  meat 
for  supper.  Then  when  ma  came  home  he  talked  to  her,  and  they  both 
cried ; I don’t  know  what  for,  ’less  ’twas  ’cause  we  couldn’t  get  the  things 
out  of  the  barrel.  And  ma  hugged  and  kissed  me  most  to  death  that 
‘night.  Well,  my  pa  got  some  work  next  day,  and  brought  home  some 
money;  and  now  he  has  a place  to  work  every  day.  He  bought  all  these 
things,  and  he  says  his  little  boy  and  girl  shall  have  things  like  other 
folks.  So  now  you’ll  know  what  the  billennial  means.  Freddy,  when 
anybody  asks  you,  and  you  can  tell  ’em  Dilly  Keene  ’splained  it  to  you.” 
— Independent. 

THE  WIDOW  AND  THE  JUDGE. 

Some  time  about  the  commencement  of  the  year  1874,  a train  was 


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STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


passing  over  the  Northwestern  Railroad,  between  Oshkosh  and  Madison. 
In  two  of  the  seats  facing  each  other,  sat  three  lawyers  engaged  at  cards. 
Their  fourth  player  had  just  left  the  car,  and  they  needed  another  to 
take  his  place.  “Come,  Judge,  take  a hand,”  they  said  to  a grave 
magistrate,  who'  sat  looking  on,  but  whose  face  indicated  no  approval 
of  their  play.  He  shook  his  head,  but  after  repeated  urgings,  finally 
with  a flushed  countenance,  took  a seat  among  them,  and  the  play 
went  on. 

A venerable  woman,  gray  and  bent  with  years,  sat  and  watched  the 
judge  from  her  seat  near  the  end  of  the  railway  car. 

After  the  game  had  progressed  a while,  she  arose,  and  with  tremb- 
ling frame,  and  almost  overcome  with  emotion,  approached  the  group. 
Fixing  her  eyes  intently  upon  the  judge,  she  said,  in  a tremulous  voice, 
“Do  you  know  me.  Judge ?” 

“No,  mother,  I don't  remember  you,”  said  the  judge  pleasantly. 
“Where  have  we  met?” 

“My  name  is  Smith,”  said  she ; “I  was  with  my  poor  boy  three  days 
off  and  on,  in  the  court  room  at  Oshkosh,  when  he  was  tried  for  — rob- 
bing some  bank,  and  you  are  the  man  that  sent  him  to  prison  for  ten 
years,  and  he  died  there  last  June.” 

All  faces  were  now  sober,  and  the  passengers  began  to  gather  around 
and  stand  up,  all  over  the  car,  to  listen  to,  and  see  what  was  going  on. 
She  did  not  give  the  judge  time  to  answer  her  but  becoming  more  and 
more  excited,  she  went  on: 

“He  was  a good  boy,  if  you  did  send  him  to  jail.  He  helped  us  to 
clear  the  farm,  and  when  his  father  was  taken  sick  and  died,  he  done 
all  the  work,  and  we  were  getting  along  right  smart.  He  was  a stiddy 
boy  till  he  got  to  keard-  playin’  and  drinkin’,  and  then,  somehow,  he 
didn’t  like  to  work  after  that,  but  used  to  stay  out  often  till  mornin’, 
and  he’d  sleep  so  late,  and  I couldn’t  wake  him,  when  I knew  he’d  been 
so  late  the  night  afore.  And  then  the  farm  kinder  run  down,  and  then 
we  lost  the  team;  one  of  them  got  killed,  when  he’d  been  to  town  one 
awful  cold  night.  He’d  stayed  late,  and  I suppose  they  got  cold  standin’ 
out,  and  got  skeered  and  broke  loose,  and  run  most  home,  but  run 
against  a fence ; and  a stake  run  into  one  of  ’em ; and  when  we  found  it 
next  mornin’  it  was  dead,  and  the  other  was  standin’  under  the  shed. 

“And  so  after  a while,  he  coaxed  me  to  sell  the  farm  and  buy  a 
house  and  lot  in  the  village,  and  he’d  work  at  carpenter  work. 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


165 


And  so  I did,  as  we  couldn’t  do  nothing  on  the  farm.  But  he  grew 
worse  than  ever,  and  after  awhile,  he  couldn’t  get  work,  and  wouldn’t 
do  anything  but  gamble  and  drink  all  the  time.  I used  to  do  everything 
I could  to  get  him  to  quit,  and  be  a good,  industrious  boy  again,  but 
he  used  to  get  mad  after  awhile,  and  once  he  struck  me,  and  then  in 
the  morning  I found  he  had  taken  what  little  money  there  was  left  of 
the  farm,  and  had  run  off. 

“After  that  time  I got  along  as  well  as  I could,  cleanin’  house  for 
folks  and  washin’,  but  I didn’t  hear  nothing  of  him  for  four  or  five  years ; 
but  when  he  got  arrested,  and  was  took  up  to  Oshkosh  for  trial,  he 
writ  to  me.” 

By  this  time  there  was  not  a dry  eye  in  the  car,  and  the  cards  had 
disappeared.  The  old  lady  herself  was  weepin^g  silently,  and  speaking 
betimes.  But  recovering  herself,  she  went  on : 

“But  what  could  I do?  I sold  the  house  and  lot  to  get  money  to 
hire  a lawyer,  and  I believe  he  is  here,  somewhere,  looking  around.  Oh, 

^ yes,  there  he  is,  Mr. , pointing  to  Lawyer , who  had  not  taken 

part  in  the  play.”  And  this  is  the  man,  I am  sure,  who  argued  agin 

him,”  pointing  to  Mr. , the  district  attorney.  “And  you,  Judge , 

sent  him  to  prison  for  ten  years ; ’spose  it  was  right,  for  the  poor  boy 
told  me  that  he  really  did  rob  the  bank,  but  he  must  have  been  drunk, 
for  they  had  been  playin’  keards  most  all  the  night  and  drinkin’.  But, 
oh,  dear ! it  seems  to  me  kinder  as  though,  if  he  hadn’t  got  to  playin’ 
keards,  he  might  ’a  been  alive  yet.  But,  when  I used  to  tell  him  it 
i was  wrong  and  bad  to  play,  he  would  say:  ‘Why  mother;  everybody 
j plays  now.  I never  bet  only  for  candy  or  cigars,  or  something  like  that.’ 

“And  when  we  heard  that  the  young  folks  played  keards  down  to 
Mr.  Culver’s  donation  party,  and  that  Squire  Ring  was  goin’  to  get  a 
billiard  table  for  his  young  folks  to  play  on  at  home,  I couldn’t  do 
nothing  with  him.  We  used  to  think  it  awful  to  do  that  way,  when  I 
was  young,  but  it  just  seems  to  me  as  if  everybody  nowadays  was  goin’ 
wrong  into  something  or  other. 

“But  maybe  it  isn’t  right  for  me  to  talk  to  you,  judge,  in  this  way, 
but  it  jist  seems  to  me  as  if  the  very  sight  of  them  keards  would  kill 
me,  judge;  I thought  if  you  knew  how  I felt,  you  would  not  play  so; 
and  then  to  think,  right  here  before  all  these  folks ! Maybe,  judge,  you 
don’t  know  h'ow  young  folks,  especially  boys,  look  up  to  such  as  you,  and 
then  I can’t  help  thinkin’  that,  maybe  if  them  that  ought  to  know  better. 


166 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


learn  them  to  do  so,  and  them  as  are  higher  learnt  and  all  that,  wouldn’t 
set  sich  examples,  my  poor  Tom  would  be  alive  and  caring  for  his  poor 
mother;  but  now  there  ain’t  any  of  my  family  left  but  me  and  my  poor 
gran’chile,  my  darter’s  little  girl,  and  we  are  going  to  stop  with  my 
brother  in  Illinois.” 

A more  eloquent  sermon  is  seldom  preached  than  was  heard  from 
that  gray,  withered,  old  lady,  trembling  with  age,  excitement  and  fear 
that  she  was  doing  wrong.  I can’t  recall  half  she  said,  as  she,  a poor, 
lone  beggard  widow,  stood  before  these  noble-looking  men,  and  pleaded 
the  cause  of  the  rising  generation. 

The  look  they  bore  as  she  poured  forth  the  sorrowful  tale  \vas 
indescribable.  To  say  that  they  looked  like  animals  at  the  bar,  would 
be  a faint  description.  I can  imagine  how  they  felt.  The  old  lady 
tottered  to  her  seat,  and  taking  her  little  grandchild  in  her  lap,  hid 
her  face  on  her  neck.  The  little  one  stroked  her  gray  hair,  and  said: 
“Don’t  cry,  granma;  don’t  cry,  granma.”  Eyes  unused  to  weeping  were 
red  for  many  a mile  on  that  journey.  And  I can  hardly  believe  that  one 
who  witnessed  that  scene  ever  touched  a card  again.  It  is  but  just  to 
say,  that  when  the  passengers  came  to  themselves,  they  generously 
responded  to  the  judge,  who,  hat  in  hand,  silently  passed  through  her 
little  audience. — “Touching  Incidents  and  Remarkable  Answers  to 
Prayer.” 

A BOTTLE  OF  TEARS. 

Many  years  ago,  while  holding  a meeting  just  over  the  Virginia 
line,  I heard  the  following  story,  which  was  afterwards  confirmed  by  a 
man  who  knew  the  parties  and  was  acquainted  with  all  its  details. 

One  evening  in  October,  a sweet  girl  of  sixteen  stood  by  the  bap- 
tismal font  and  answered  the  questions  which  stood  for  fidelity  to  her 
Lord  and  the  church  forever.  Only  two  years  later  she  stood  by  those 
same  altars  by  the  side  of  a strong,  noble  man,  to  whom  she  pledged  un- 
broken loyalty.  The  future  was  promising  indeed,  and  ever3-body 
seemed  to  catch  the  spirit  of  gladness  as  they  passed  under  the  wedding 
arch,  amid  strains  of  music,  to  the  carriage  awaiting  them,  and  were 
wheeled  to  the  station.  They  soon  left  old  friends  and  old  scenes  behind 
them,  as  they  went  sweeping  through  strange  scenery  on  the  way  to  the 
homestead  of  the  groom,  to  which  he  had  fallen  heir  and  to  which  he  was 
taking  his  beautiful  young  bride. 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


167 


Two  mornings  later  they  came  to  the  place  that  was  to  be  their  fu- 
ture home.  Everything  was  beautiful,  and  it  seemed  to  the  young  bride 
that  nothing  short  of  paradise  could  surpass  its  beauty  or  be  more  replete 
with  bliss. 

Between  this  lovely  mansion  and  the  well-kept  farm  , three  miles 
away  was  a place  the  threshold  of  which  the  young  husband  had  never 
crossed,  the  gathering  place  of  the  rough  element  of  that  section  of  the 
country.  But  one  evening  he  did  turn  in  with  a friend.  Later  he  visited 
the  place  alone.  He  sipped,  he  treated,  he  drank,  he  gambled,  he  sopn 
became  a drunkard,  and  one  day  he  was  murdered  and  carried  home  to 
be  buried  in  the  family  garden.  This  brief  recital  covers  a period  of 
from  ten  to  twelve  years. 

The  morning  after  the  broken-hearted  woman  had  laid  her  husband 
away,  a note  was  handed  her  by  the  bar-keeper,  from  his  employer,  in 
which  he  claimed  that  he  held  a mortgage  on  the  place,  including  farm 
implements,  household  furniture,  and  even  all  wearing  apparel,  in  fact 
everything  she  possessed  that  had  not  already  been  lost  by  her  departed 
husband. 

This  was  a great  blow  to  the  suffering  woman,  as  she  believed  there 
was  still  left  her  the  house  and  a few  acres  of  land  on  which  the  house 
stood.  She  rested  her  aching  head  on  her  hands  and  shed  burning  tears, 
which  unconsciously  to  herself  fell  into  a saucer  that  was  lying  in  her 
lap,  and  from  which  her  youngest  child  had  just  eaten  its  breakfast.  As 
she  looked  down  and  saw  the  tears  that  had  rained  into  the  saucer,  she 
took  them  and  poured  them  into  a phial,  which  she  placed  in  the  folds  of 
her  wedding  dress  that  had  hung  in  her  wardrobe  since  the  day  of  her 
wedding.  Then  she  wrote  him  a letter,  in  substance  as  follows : 

“Sir,  you  demand  the  keys.  I send  them  herewith.  The  one  with  a 
red  string  unlocks  my  wardrobe.  In  the  right  side  you  will  find  my 
wedding  dress.  I never  wore  it  but  once.  In  its  folds  you  will  find  a 
small  bottle  containing  a few  tears.”  Then  she  went  on  to  relate  the 
story  of  her  courtship*  and  marriage,  of  their  short  honeymoon,  of  the 
time  that  she  was  brought  into  this  home  the  happy  bride  of  one  of  the 
noblest  of  husbands. 

Then  came  the  sad  story  of  the  first  time  her  husband  crossed  the 
threshold  of  the  one  who  sold  him  the  liquor  that  caused  his  downfall ; 
of  the  first  time  she  detected  the  odor  of  liquor  on  his  breath ; of  the 
many  promises  that  it  would  never  happen  again ; of  the  time  that  he 


168 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


became  a tippler;  of  the  first  time  his  step  was  unsteady,  and  then  his 
rapid  decline  until  he  became  a confirmed  drunkard. 

One  child  was  born,  and  he  promised  to  leave  off  his  habit  of  drink- 
ing. New  hope  sprang  up  in  her  breast,  only  to  be  dashed  to  pieces  in 
but  a few  days.  The  fiabit  had/  taken  such  strong  hold  of  him  that  he 
could  not  resist,  and  was  soon  in  its  clutches  again.  Then  another  child 
was  soon  given  to  them. 

It  was  the  old  story  of  the  flight  of  luxury;  of  the  desertion  of 
friends ; of  the  curtailing  of  expenses  in  order  to  meet  the  claims  of  the 
liquor  dealer;  of  the  decline  of  health;  of  the  times  that  she  had  to  flee 
with  her  children  from  rum-crazed  husband  and  father.  Then  a third 
child  came,  which  added  to  the  weight  of  struggle  to  keep  the  wolf  from 
the  door. 

One  night  she  cried  out  in  her  anguish  of  heart,  and  it  wakened 
her  oldest  child,  who  came  to  her  bedside  and  asked  to  know  the  cause 
of  it  all.  She  was  told  that  her  mother  was  dying  and  that  she  would 
have  to  take  the  place  of  her  mother  in  caring  for  papa  and  the  little 
sisters,  that  papa  was  a hopeless  drunkard  and  she  would  soon  be  the 
only  bread-winner.  The  child  met  her  father  in  the  early  morning  as 
he  came  staggering  up  the  walk,  and  throwing  her  arms  around  him 
told  him  of  her  mother’s  condition,  and  pleaded  with  him  to  give  up  his 
drinking  habits.  His  only  reply  was  an  oath  and  a blow  felled  her  to 
the  ground,  and  then  he  came  into  the  house  and  met  his  wife  with 
curses  and  blows. 

But  it  did  not  end  with  that,  and  one  day  he  was  carried  into  her 
home  by  four  of  the  liquor  dealer’s  henchmen,  dead.  Some  friendly 
negroes  dug  the  grave  in  what  she  supposed  to  be  her  own  garden  and 
buried  him  there  under  his  favorite  apple  tree.  But  now  even  that  is 
gone  from  her  and  she  is  left  a widow  Avith  three  children  to  care  for 
and  not  even  a roof  over  her  head. 

A 

So  that  is  the  meaning  of  the  bottle  of  tears,  and  some  day  the  one 
who  sold  this  young  man  the  liquor  will  have  to  answer  for  it  before  the 
judgment  bar  of  God ; answer  for  a blighted  home,  a widow’s  broken 
heart  and  three  children  left  without  a home,  left  to  struggle  along  in 
this  world  without  a father’s  protection  and  care  with  onl}'  the  memory 
of  a murdered  father  filling  a drunkard’s  grave. — Selected  by  The  Mis- 
sionary Worker. 


s 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


169 


THE  STANDARD-BEARER. 

He  came  into  a small  Western  city  to  take  charge  of  Christian 
work.  He  had  just  finished  a course  in  theology,  having  graduated 
from  the  regular  course  several  years  before.  He  was  not  young.  I 
fancy  he  had  already  entered  the  thirties.  He  had  worked  his  way 
through  college  and  had  overcome  all  manner  of  obstacles  in  order  to 
complete  his  education  and  prepare  for  the  life  work  which  he  had 
chosen. 

His  boyhood,  I fancy,  had  not  been  care-free.  His  family  was  poor, 
and  had  little  more  than  bare  necessities.  But  Norman  was  born  with 
a love  for  the  beautiful  things  of  life.  His  desires  ran  to  fine  books, 
flowers,  pictures  and  music.  From  boyhood  he  had  hungered  for  those 
things  which  he  had  not.  Then  came  a time  when  they  lay  at  his  feet. 

This  little  Western  city  was  the  home  of  wealth.  I do  not  know 
that  it  was  any  better  or  worse  than  the  average  towns  of  the  country. 

There  were  many  churches ; a few  drinking  and  gambling  places ; but 
the  popular  sentiment  was  in  favor  of  morality  and  high  ideals  of 
living.  There  were  several  beautiful  streets  of  fine  homes,  with  beautiful 
lawns  and  servants  in  livery.  Here  the  majority  of  the  men  and  women 
were  college-bred  and  many  had  studied  abroad. 

In  such  an  atmosphere  Norman  was  placed.  He  was  fresh  from 
privations,  poverty  and  the  struggle  for  self-maintenance. 

The  people  were  pleased  with  him.  They  recognized  him  as  a man 
of  ability;  they  admired  his  self-reliance;  they  respected  his  principle. 
They  were  ready  to  listen  to  him,  to  follow  him  as  a leader.  He  was 
received  everywhere.  Old  conservative  families  who  made  few  friends 
received  him  warmly. 

Here  came  the  test  of  his  moral  strength,  but  he  did  not  recognize  it 
as  such.  He  had  risen  above  adversity;  he  had  succeeded  against 
poverty ; unknown  and  obscure,  he  had  made  known  his  views  from  the 
isolated  portion  of  his  world.  All  this  may  a man  of  average  moral 
caliber-  do ; but  to  withstand  and  to  grow  strong  among  the  seducing, 
effeminating  influence  of  wealth  demands  a moral  giant. 

Norman  had  looked  upon  the  liquor  traffic  as  the  handmaid  of  the 
evil  one.  He  had  used  in  private  and  public  his  influence  against  it 
He  had  abstained  from  the  use  of  tobacco  in  any  form. 

But  the  cultivated  people  of  the  town  were  accustomed  to  serve 


170 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


wines  at  their  banquets  and  dinners.  They  were  not  intemperate,  but 
they  were  not  total  abstainers. 

Norman  had  been  in  charge  of  these  Christian  workers  but  a short 
time,  when  he  was  invited  to  a reception  at  a home  where  there  were 
several  young  men.  A room  on  the  third'  floor  had  been  set  aside  as  a 
smoking  room.  Here  a number  of  the  men  met,  Norman  among  them. 
Without  a demur,  he  partook  of  the  wine  and  cigars.  Both  were  dis- 
tasteful to  him,  but  he  made  a pretense  of  enjoying  them. 

Among  the  guests  was  an  eccentric  character,  a man  of  middle  age, 
who  was  known  as  a non-believer,  but  who  was  an  intellectual  giant, 
fearless  in  the  expression  of  his  opinion  and  independent  in  his  action. 
This  man,  Norman  had  been  striving  for  months  to  reach.  He  had 
accomplished  so  much  that  the  man  had  listened  to  his  discourses  and 
had  debated  the  subject  in  private  with  him.  He  entered  the  smoking 
room  just  as  Norman  took  up  his  wineglass.  The  host  offered  him  the 
wine.  “You’ll  bear  us  company,  Mr.  Miller?”  he  asked. 

“You  know  that  I will  not,”  he  replied  bluntly.  “You  knew  that 
before  you  asked.” 

The  others  looked  up  in  surprise.  Several  laughed. 

“Miller  acts  as  though  he  had  been  insulted,”  said  one  young  man, 
“in  place  of  being  treated  with  courtesy.” 

“That’s  just  the  way  I feel  about  it,”  retorted  Air.  Miller.  “To  ask 
me  such  a question  places  me  in  one  of  two  positions ; either  as  a man 
without  an  opinion,  or  a man  whose  opinion  changes  with  the  hour.” 

He  crossed  the  room  and  seated  himself  in  a comfortable  position, 
as  he  continued.  “I’ve  lived  in  this  town  sixty  years.  Allowing  the 
first  twenty  years  to  be  the  time  when  my  judgment  was  not  ripe  enough 
to  have  my  opinions  considered,  there  yet  remains  to  me  about  forty 
years  of  responsible  time.  Now  from  the  very  first,  I’ve  been  strong 
against  this  drinking  habit,  both  for  the  individual  and  for  the  nation. 
I look  upon  liquor  as  an  agent  of  Satan.  I believe  more  evil  has  been 
brought  into  the  world  through  it  than  by  all  other  means  combined. 

“Now,  I’ve  believed  that  for  forty  years ; I am  under  the  impression 
that  I’ve  expressed  myself  along  that  line,  yet  rnv  words  must  have 
been  weak,  or  our  host  would  not  have  offered  me  a wine-glass.” 

His  hearers  felt  that  he  meant  every  word  he  said,  yet  they  joined 
in  his  bland,  genial  smile  which  swept  the  room,  embracing  everyone 
within  it. 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


171 


“Either  my  words  were  weak,  or  my  friends  entertain  the  opinion 
that  I play  follow  the  leader;  and  I’d  as  soon  be  called  an  imbecile  as  a 
weakling  that  does  anything  because  some  other  fellow  does  it.  No 
wine,  no  cigars  for  me.”  He  waved  his  hand  as  though  to  dismiss  them 
and  the  subject. 

As  they  quitted  the  mansion,  Mr.  Miller  joined  Norman  on  his  way 
home. 

As  he  placed  his- hand  on  the  younger  man’s  arm,  he  said  bluntly, 
“I  wish  to  ask  you  a question.  Doesn’t  the  religion  you  have  accepted 
and  represent,  look  with  disfavor  upon  the  use  of  liquors?  Did  you  not 
read  to  me  during  our  last  confidential  hour  that  beautiful  sentiment, 
‘If  meat  make  my  brother  to  offend’?” 

He  looked  up  inquiringly  into  his  companion’s  face.  He  was  not  in  a 
critical  mood,  nor  had  he  asked  the  question  for  the  sake  of  argument. 

“Yes;  to  all  your  questions,”  said  Norman. 

“You  yourself  know  it  to  be  the  instrument  of  evil.  You  know  that 
the  greater  per  cent  of  crimitial  cases,  imbecile  children  and  poverty,  are 
the  direct  cause  of  its  use.” 

“Yes,  I know  that,”  replied  Norman. 

“Then  why  did  you  touch  it  this  evening?  You  told  me  once  that 
you  did  not  know  the  taste  of  it.  I believed  you.  But  why  did  you  do  as 
you  did  this  evening?” 

“I  never  tasted  it  before.  I have  no  desire  to  do  so  again.  But  my 
desire  is  to  get  closer  to  those  young  men.  They  have  never  let  me 
come  near  them.  I thought  if  perhaps  I should  put  my  own  principles 
aside,  they  would  feel  free  and  easier  in  my  presence,  and  after  a time  I 
might  influence  them  to  accept  these  same  principles  and  teaching.” 

“You  never  made  a greater  mistake,  my  friend.  We  never  can 
elevate  anyone  by  coming  down  to  him.  Principle  is  a thing  that  cannot 
be  lowered.  When  we  think  we  are  doing  so,  we  are  satisfying  ourselves 
with  the  semblance  of  the  thing;  the  principle  itself  has  been  lost. 

“As  a nation,  we  did  not  win  respect  for  our  flag  by  lowering  it. 
We  kept  it  dying  high  and  compelled  others  to  look  up  to  it.” 

“You  believe  that  your  conduct  should  reflect  your  belief.  Your 
presence  alone,  sir,  without  words,  should  tell  a man  what  you  have 
accepted.  No  man  has  ever  been  so  morally  weak  that  he  did  not 
despise  moral  weakness  in  another.  We  love  a hero,  whatever  the  way 
his  heroism  flaunts  itself. 


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STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


“No,  my  friend,  to-tiight  was  your  opportunity  to  come  nearer  in 
friendship  to  those  young  men.  You  missed  it.  They  are  further  from 
you  than  before,  and,  if  I read  the  stars  aright,  they  will  never  come 
closer.” 

Norman  took  the  advice  in  good  part;  but  he  did  not  heed  it.  He 
continued  as  he  had  begun.  He  lowered  his  standard  so  frequently  that 
it  was  more  often  trailing  in  the  wind  that  floating  in  the  sunshine.  His 
influence  for  good  was  weakened,  for  when  the  desire  to  fight  a good 
fight  is  awakened  within  one,  even  the  most  evil  of  mankind,  he  wishes 
to  follow  a standard  whicli  is  never  lowered. — ^Jean  K.  Baird  in  Phila- 
delphia Westminister. 


LITTLE  BRIDGET. 

It  was  Sunday  afternoon.  In  a prosperous  dramshop  in  the  most 
densely  populated  district  of  the  city,  a crowd  of  loafers  were  tossing 
coppers  for  drinks,  singing  snatches  of  street  ballads  and  exchanging 
coarse  jests,  when  a pale,  slight  child  burst  into  the  place,  closely  pur- 
sued by  a virago  armed  with  the  rung  of  a chair.  There  was  a cruel 
purple  welt  across  the  little  one’s  forehead,  and  her  eyes  were  swollen 
with  crying.  She  flew  to  one  of  the  men,  who  set  her  behind  the  bar 
in  safety. 

The  woman  hurled  blasphemy  and  invectives  at  the  man,  and  gave 
him  a heavy  blow  with  the  stick  she  carried.  The  piercing  cries  of  the 
terrified  child  soon  brought  a policeman  to  the  spot,  when  the  arrest  of 
both  the  man  and  the  woman  followed,  and  they  were  led  away,  the 
child  meanwhile  crouching  behind  the  bar. 

“Now  that  you’ve  yelled  your  father  and  mother  into  the  lock-up, 
get  out  of  here,  you  little  brat !”  said  the  proprietor  of  the  saloon,  and 
the  girl,  a child  of  less  than  nine  years,  shrunk  from  the  place. 

“I  guess  Mag  belts  the  kid  every  chance  she  gets,  now,”  said  one 
of  the  loungers,  and  another  answered : 

“It’s  a good  thing  John  was  sober  enough  to  stand  up  for  her,  or 
she’d  have  been  laid  out  this  time  sure.  The  old  girl  is  crazy  drunk.” 

Meanwhile  the  little  one  turned  into  a by-street  which  led  to  her 
home,  but  she  paused  at  the  sound  of  singing  in  a neighboring  room, 
and,  as  she  stood  sadly  listening,  a lady  asked  her  to  enter.  The  voice 
was  gentle,  the  face  kind,  and  the  child  laid  her  hand  confidingly  in  that 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


173 


of  her  guide  and  was  soon  seated  beside  her  and  listening  to  the  ever- 
winning, 

Of  Jesus  and  his  love.” 

“Tell  me  the  old,  old  story 

There  were  all  classes  gathered  in  that  homely  room.  But  of  them 
all  no  one  was  so  sore-hearted  and  hopeless  as  little  Alice  Barney  when 
she  entered  there,  and  no  soul  had  ever  been  happier  than  hers  when 
she  went  away.  She  was  cheered  and'  comforted,  and  accepted  with  en- 
tire comprehension  and  faith  the  whole  of  the  beautiful  old,  old  story  of 
Jesus  and  his  love. 

A simple  thing  to  do,  but  it  changed  her  whole  life.  Her  eyes 
beamed,  her  feet  seemed  to  tread  on  air,  she  was  lifted  out  of  herself, 
and  the  dreadful  world  she  had  known  existed  for  her  no  longer. 

The  next  day  she  learned  that  her  mother  had  been  sent  to  the 
workhouse  for  ten  days,  but  her  father  came  home  not  only  sober,  but 
ashamed.  He  found  the  poor  room  swept,  and  upon  the  table  were  clean 
cups  and  plates,  with  bread  neatly  sliced  and  the  coffee  hot. 

The  little  girl  had  lost  all  her  shrinking  timidity,  and  seemed  to  her 
father  a new  being.  She  told  the  story  of  her  experience  at  the  mission 
school,  and  in  a sweet,  fearless  way,  born  of  her  joy,  she  said : 

“They  are  going  to  tell  more  of  the  blessed  Jesus  on  the  street  to- 
night, father,  and  there  will  be  singing,  too.  Will  you  go  with  me  to 
hear  it?” 

“No,  child’,  I am  not  fit,  but  you  can  go  and  have  as  much  as  you 
like  of  it.” 

What  need  to  narrate  the  work  of  grace  in  this  little  one  chosen  of 
the  Lord?  Before  her  mother  returned  she  was  at  home  with  the  city 
missionaries,  and  enlisted  heart  and  soul  i,n  the  work. 

Her  father  did  not  oppose  her,  though  he  refused  to  go  with  her, 
but  her  mother  was  bitter  in  her  denunciation  of  what  she  called  the 
canting,  ranting  Christians.  Alice,  however,  with  a sweet  wisdom  and 
courage,  went  her  way.  She  seemed  to  be  living  the  lines  of  Sir  Galahad, 

“My  strength  is  as  the  strength  of  ten. 

Because  my  heart  is  pure.” 

— Selected  by  Way  of  Faith. 


174 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


MARRIED  TO  A DRUNKARD. 

She  arose  suddenly  in  the  meeting,  and  spoke  as  follows: 

“Married  to  a drunkard!  Yes,  I was  married  to  a drunkard.  Look 
at  me ! I am  talking  to  the  girls.” 

We  all  turned  and  looked  at  her.  She  was  a wan  woman  with  dark, 
sad  eyes,  and  white  hair,  placed  smoothly  over  a brow  that  denoted 
intellect. 

“When  I married  a drunkard,  I reached  the  acme  of  misery,”  she 
continued,  “1  was  young,  and  oh,  so  happy  I married  the  man  I loved, 
and  who  professed  to  love  me.  He  was  a drunkard,  and  I knew  it,  knew 
it  but  did  not  understand  it.  There  is  not  a young  girl  in  this  building 
that  does  understand  it,  unless  she  has  a drunkard  in  her  family ; then, 
perhaps,  she  knows  how  deeply  the  iron  enters  the  soul  of  a woman 
when  she  loves  and  is  allied  to  a drunkard,  whether  father,  brother, 
husband  or  son.  Girls  believe  me,  when  I tell  you  that  to  marry  a 
drunkard,  to  love  a drunkard,  is  the  crown  of  all  misery.  I have  gone 
through  the  deep  waters,  and  I have  gained  the  fearful  knowledge  at 
the  expense  of  happiness,  sanity,  almost  life  itself.  Do  you  wonder  my 
hair  is  white?  It  turned  white  in  a night  — ‘bleached  by  sorrow,’  as 
Marie  Antoinette  said  of  her  hair.  I am  not  forty  years  old,  yet  the 
sorrows  of  seventy  rest  upon  my  head;  and  upon  my  heart  — ah!  I 
cannot  begin  to  count  the  winters  resting  there,”  she  said,  with  unutter- 
able pathos  in  her  voice. 

“My  husband  was  a professional  man.  His  calling  took  him  from 
home  frequently  at  night,  and  when  he  returned,  he  returned  drunk. 
Gradually  he  gave  way  to  temptation  in  the  day,  until  he  was  rarely 
sober.  I had  two  lovely  little  girls  and  a boy.”  Her  voice  faltered,  and 
we  sat  in  deep  silence,  listening  to  her  story.  “My  husband  had  been 
drinking  deeply.  I had  not  seen  him  for  two  days.  He  had  kept  away 
from  his  home.  One  night  I was  seated  beside  my  sick  boy ; the  two 
girls  were  in  bed  in  the  next  room,  while  beyond,  was  another  room 
into  which  I heard  my  husband  go,  as  he  entered  the  house.  That 
room  communicated  with  the  one  in  which  my  little  girls  were  sleeping. 
I do  not  know  why,  but  a feeling  of  terror  suddenly  took  hold  of  me, 
and  I felt  that  my  little  girls  were  in  danger. 

“I  arose  and  went  to  the  room.  The  door  was  locked.  I knocked 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


175 


on  it  frantically,  but  no  answer  came.  I seemed  to  be  endowed  with 
superhuman  strength,  and  throwing  myself  with  all  my  force  against 
the  door,  the  lock  gave  way,  and  the  door  flew  open. 

“Oh,  the  sight ! the  terrible  sight !”  she  wailed  out,  in  a voice  that 
haunts  me  now;  and  she  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  when 
she  removed  them,  it  was  whiter  and  more  sad  than  ever. 

“Delirium  tremens!  You  have  never  seen  it,  girls;  God  grant  you 
never  may.  My  husband  stood  beside  the  bed,  his  eyes  glaring  with 
insanity,  and  in  his  hand  a large  knife.  ‘Take  them  away,’  he  screamed. 
‘The  horrible  things  are  crawling  all  over  me.  Take  them  away,  I 
say  r and  he  flourished  the  knife  in  the  air.  Regardless  of  danger,  I 
rushed  to  the  bed  and  my  heart  seemed,  suddenly  to  cease  beating. 
There  lay  my  children,  covered  with  their  life-blood,  slain  by  their  own 
father!  For  a moment  I could  not  utter  a sound.  I was  literally  dumb 
in  the  presence  of  this  terrible  sorrow.  I scarcely  heeded  the  maniac  at 
my  side  — the  man  who  had  brought  me  all  this  woe.  Then  I uttered 
a , loud  scream,  and  my  wailing  filled  the  air.  The  servants  heard  me 
and  hastened  to  the  room,  and  when  my  husband  saw  them,  he  sud- 
denly drew  the  knife  across  his  own  throat.  I knew  nothing  more.  I 
was  borne  from  the  room  that  contained  my  slaughtered  children  and 
the  body  of  my  husband. ' The  next  day  my  hair  was  white  and  my  mind 
was  so  shattered  that  I knew  no  one.” 

She  ceased  ! Our  eyes  were  riveted  upon  her  wan  face,  and  some 
one  present  sobbed  aloud,  while  there  was  scarcely  a dry  eye  in  that 
temperance  meeting.  So  much  sorrow  we  thought,  and  through  no 
fault  of  her  own.  We  saw  that  she  was  not  done  speaking,  and  was 
only  waiting  to  subdue  her  emotion  to  resume  her  story. 

“Two  years,”  she  continued,  “I  was  a mental  wreck;  then  I 
recovered  from  the  shock,  and  absorbed  myself  in  the  care  of  my  boy. 
But  the  sin  of  the  father  was  visited  upon  the  child,  and  six  months 
ago  my  boy  of  eighteen  was  placed  in  a drunkard’s  grave;  and  I 
turned  unto  my  desolate  home  a childless  woman  — one  on  whom  the 
hand  of  God  had  rested  heavily.” 

“Girls,  it  is  you  that  I wish  to  rescue  from  the  fate  that  overtook 
me.  Do  not  blast  your  life  as  I blasted  mine,  do  not  be  drawn  into 
the  madness  of  marrying  a drunkard.  You  love  him!  So  much  the 
worse  fdr  you,  for,  married  to  him,  the  greater  will  be  your  misery 


176 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


because  of  your  love.  You  will  marry  him  and  then  reform  him,  so 
you  say.  Ah ! a woman  sadly  over-rates  her  strength  when  she  under- 
takes to  do  this.  You  are  no  match  for  the  giant  demon,  drink,  when 
he  possesses  a man’s  body  and  soul.  You  are  no  match  for  him,  I say. 
What  is  your  puny  strength  beside  this  gigantic  force?  He  will 
crush  you,  too.  It  is  to  save  you,  girls,  from  the  sorrow  that  wrecked 
my  happiness,  that  I have  unfolded  my  history  to  you.  I am  a stranger 
in  this  great  city.  I am  merely  passing  through  it;  and  I have  a 
message  to  bear  to  every  girl  in  America  — never  marry  a drunkard.” 

I can  see  her  now,  as  she  stood  there  amid  the  hushed  audience, 
her  dark  eyes  glowing,  and  her  frame  quivering  with  emotion,  as  she 
uttered  her  impassioned  appeal,  then  she  hurried  out,  and  we  never  saw 
her  again. 

Her  words,  “fitly  spoken,”  were  not  without  effect,  however,  and 
because  of  them,  there  is  one  girl  single  now. — “Touching  Incidents  and 
Remarkable  Answers  to  Prayer.” 

ALLEN  BANCROFT’S  PLEDGE. 

“So  this  is  our  new  cabin-boy,”  soliloquized  Lieutenant , as  t.e 

caught  sight  of  a dark-eyed,  handsome  youth,  leaning  against  the  railing 
and  gazing  with  a far-away  look  at  the  foamy  waves  that  closed,  with 
rushing  sweep,  white  and  bubbling  in  the  wake  of  the  swiftly  moving 
vessel.  “Well,  he  looks  like  an  interesting  subject  I’m  curious  to  know 
more  about  him.” 

Soon  afterwards  rough  shouts  and  laughter  attracted  the  lieutenant 
to  the  forward  deck,  where  he  found  a group  of  sailors  trying  their 
utmost  to  persuade  the  boy  to  share  their  grog. 

“Laugh  on,”  Allen  was  just  replying;  “but  I’ll  never  taste  a drop. 
You  ought  to  be  ashamed  to  drink  yourselves,  much  more  to  offer  it 
to  another.” 

A second  shout  of  laughter  greeted  this  reply,  and  a sailor,  em- 
boldened by  the  approach  of  the  captain,  whom  all  knew  to  be  a great 
drinker,  said:  ‘^Now,  my  hearty,  get  ready  to  keel  over  on  your  beam 
ends,  when  you’ve  swallowed  this.” 

He  was  about  to  pour  the  liquor  down  Allen’s  throat,  when,  quick  as 
a flash,  the  latter  seized  the  bottle  and  flung  it  far  overboard.  At  the 


FRANCES  E.  WILLARD. 

Of  this  Ijlessed  “daughter  of  The  King,”  it  might  be  said  with  Solomon: 
“Many  daughters  liave  done  virtuously,  but  thou  excellest  them  all.”  She 
was  insistent  for  sobriety  in  high  places  aiid  in  low,  and  demanded  the 
majesty  of  civil  law  against  tlie  Evil  of  Intemperance.”  (Bishopl  John  i** 
"'lewman,  author  of  “Lead  Kindly  T ight.” 


LILLIAN  M.  N.  STEVENS 

President  of  the  National  W.  C.  T.  U.  This  organization  to  whicn 
Frances  E.  Willard  devoted  the  best  part  of  her  noble  life,  did  most  of  the 
Pioneer  work  which  has  '"esulted  in  the  great  agitation  against  intemperance. 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE  177 


instant.  Captain  Harden,  his  face  scarlet  with  rage,  grasped  the  boy’s 
arm  and  shouted:  “Hoist  this  fellow  aloft  into  the  maintopsail.  I’ll 
teach  him  better  than  to  waste  my  property !” 

“I’ll  go  myself,  captain,'  said  Allen,  quietly  waving  the  sailors  back, 
“and  I hope  you  will  pardon  me;  I meant  no  offense.” 

“Faster!”  cried  the  captain,  as  he  saw  with  what  care  the  boy  was 
measuring  his  steps,  for  it  was  extremely  dangerous  for  one  unused 
to  the  sea,  to  climb  that  height.  Faster  Allen  tried  to  go,  but  his  foot 
slipped,  and  he  dangled  by  his  arms  in  mid-air.  A coarse  laugh  from 
the  captain  greeted  this  mishap  and  a jeer  from  the  sailors,  but  with 
a strong  effort,  Allen  caught  hold  of  the  rigging  again  and  was  soon 
in  the  fatch-basket. 

“Now,  stay  there,  you  young  scamp,  and  get  some  of  the  spirit 
frozen  out  of  you,”  muttered  the  captain,  as  he  went  below.  But  at 
nightfall  the  lieutenant  ventured  to  say  to  the  captain,  who  had  been 
drinking  freely  all  the  afternoon : “Pardon  my  intrusion.  Captain 
Harden,  but  I’m  afraid  our  cabin  boy  will  be  sick  if  he  is  compelled 
to  stay  up  there  much  longer.” 

“Sick ! bah ! not  a bit  of  it ; he’s  got  too  much  grit  in  him  to  yield  to 
such  nonsense ; no  one  on  board  my  ship  ever  gets  sick ; all  know  better 
than  to  play  that  game  on  me.  But  I’ll  go  and  see  what  he  is  doing, 
anyhow.” 

“Ho,  my  lad !”  he  shouted  through  his  trumpet. 

“Ay,  ay,  sir,”  was  the  faint  but  prompt  response,  as  an  eager  face 
looked  down  for  release. 

“How  do  you  like  your  new  berth?”  was  the  mocking  question. 

“Better  than  grog  or  whiskey,  sir.” 

“If  I allow  you  to  come  down,  will  you  drink  this?”  asked  the  cap- 
tain, holding  up  a sparkling  glass  of  wine. 

“I  have  forsworn  all  intoxicating  drinks,  sir,  and  I will  not  break 
my  pledge,  even  at  the  risk  of  my  life.” 

“There,  that  settles  it,”  said  the  captain  to  the  lieutenant;  “he’s 
got  to  stay  up  there  to-night ; he’ll  be  toned  down  by  morning.” 

But  at  dawn  there  was  no  response  to  the  captain’s  “Ho,  my  lad  I” 
When  two  sailors  brought  the  boy’s  limp  form  into  his  presence,  his 
voice  softened,  as  he  said : “Here,  my  lad,  drink  this  glass  of  warm  wine 
and  eat  the  soaked  biscuit,  and  I will  trouble  you  no  more.” 


178 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


“Captain  Harden,”  said  Allen,  in  a hoarse  whisper,  “will  you  allow 
me  to  tell  you  a little  of  my  history?” 

“Go  on,”  said  the  captain,  “but  do  not  think  it  will  change  my  mind; 
you  have  to  drink  this,  just  to  show  you  how  I bend  stiff  necks  on 
board  my  ship.” 

“Two  weeks  before  I came  on  board  this  ship,  I stood  beside  my 
mother’s  coffin.  I heard  the  dull  thud  of  falling  earth  as  the  sexton 
filled  the  grave  which  held  her  remains.  I saw  the  people  leave  the 
spot.  I was  alone ; yes,  alone,  for  she  who  loved  and  cared  for  me,  was 
gone.  I knelt  for  a moment  upon  the  fresh  turf ; and,  while  the  hot 
tears  rolled  down  my  cheeks,  I vowed  never  to  taste  the  liquor  that  had 
broken  my  mother’s  heart  and  ruined  my  father’s  life.  Two  days  later, 
I stretched  my  hand  through  the  prison  bars,  behind  which  my  father 
was  confined.  I told  him  of  my  intention  to  go  to  sea.  Do  with  me 
what  you  will,  captain ; let  me  freeze  to  death  in  the  maintop ; throw  me 
into  the  sea,  anything,  but  do  not,  for  my  dead  mother’s  sake,  force 
me  to  drink  that  poison  that  has  ruined  my  father  and  killed  my  mother. 
Do  not  let  it  ruin  a mother’s  son !” 

The  captain  stepped  forward ; and,  laying  his  hand,  which  trembled 
a little,  upon  the  head  of  the  sobbing  lad,  said  to  the  crew  who  had 
gathered  around:  “For  our  mothers’  sake,  let  us  respect  Allen  Ban- 
croft’s pledge.  And  never,”  he  continued,  glancing  ominously  at  the 
sailors,  “never  let  me  catch  any  of  you  ill-treating  him.”  He  then 
hastily  withdrew  and  the  sailors  went  forward. 

“Lieutenant ,”  exclaimed  the  bewildered  Allen,  “what  does  this 

mean?  Is  it  possible  that  — that — ” 

“That  you  are  free,”  replied  the  lieutenant,  “and  that  no  one  will 
trouble  you  again.” 

“Lieutenant,”  said  the  boy,  “if  I were  not  so  sick  and  cold  just 
now,  I think  I’d  just  toss  my  hat  and  give  three  cheers  for  Captain 
Harden.” 

He  served  on  the  vessel  three  years,  and  became  a favorite  with  all. 
In  his  presence  even  the  rudest  sailor  would  not  dare  to  utter  coarse 
jests,  and  there  was  a noticeable  decrease  in  the  profanity  on  board. 
When  he  left,  as  the  lieutenant  tells  the  story.  Captain  Harden  pre- 
sented Allen  with  a handsome  gold  watch  as  a memento  of  his  night 
in  the  maintop. 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


179 


How  well  this  illustrates  Lamartine’s  saying,  that  there  is  only  one 
stimulant  that  never  fails  and  yet  never  intoxicates  — duty.  Duty  puts 
a blue  sky  over  every  man  — up  in  his  heart,  maybe  — into  which  the 
skylark  Happiness  always  goes  singing. — Success. 

MRS.  CLAPSADDLE’S  EXPERIENCE  WITH  STUFFLIE’S 
SALTED  WHISKY. 

“Dear  me!”  sighed  little  Mrs.  Clapsaddle,  laying  down  her  fork, 
“I  certainly  do  feel  dreadful  this  spring.  I don’t  know  when  I’ve  felt 
so  run  down.  Nothing  tastes  good  any  more.”  She  pushed  her  plate 
back  on  the  table,  and  regarded  it  indifferently.  Then  she  rose,  and, 
after  giving  the  food  she  could  not  eat  to  Lucretia  Borgia,  the  cat, 
wearily  crossed  the  room  and  gazed  into  the  little,  plush-framed  looking- 
glass. 

“Yee,”  sighed  Mrs.  Clapsaddle,  sadly  shaking  her  head  at  her 
reflection,  “my  looks  tell  me  plainly  that  I’m  feelin’  real  miserable. 
Dear ! dear ! I don’t  know  what  I shall  do.  I certainly  hate  to  be 
sick  and  have  a doctor.  If  I only  had  an  appetite,  I wouldn’t  worry. 
I guess  I’ll  see  if  I can’t  dig  me  some  horse-radish  this  afternoon  If  I 
can’t.  I’ll  get  me  some  mustard.” 

Mrs.  Clapsaddle,  a good,  simple-minded,  old-fashioned  woman,  was 
of  the  opinion  that  if  her  stomach  did  not  cry  for  food,  it  ought  to  be 
spurred  to  do  its  duty.  She  did  not  know  that  long  confinement  without 
exercise,  in  her  small,  hot,  badly  ventilated  rooms,  coupled  with  im- 
proper food  and  advancing  age,  were  the  causes  of  her  run-down  con- 
dition. What  she  did  realize  was  that  never  before  had  she  felt  so 
thoroughly  “out  of  sorts,”  and  she  thought  the  first  thing  to  do  was  to 
tone  up  her  stomach  with  something  hot,  and  then  get  some  medicine. 
That  afternoon  she  pulled  and  grated  some  horseradish  — a procedure 
that  “tuckered  her  out”  completely.  Thinking  that  she  would  better  be 
thorough,  while  she  was  about  it,  she  also  bought  some  ground  mustard 
and  mixed  it  with  vinegar.  Under  the  influence  of  this  fiery  combination, 
she  became  quite  sick  and  much  discouraged.  Besides,  a new  ailment 
had  appeared  — she  had  a “crick”  in  her  back. 

“Dear  me !”  she  murmured,  as  she  picked  up  a magazine  a friend 
had  brought  in,  “I  never  felt  so  blue  in  my  life.  Something’s  got  to 


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STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


be  Oone.”  She  began  turning  the  pages  in  the  back  of  the  periodical, 
and  suddenly  an  alluring  advertisement  caught  her  eye.  “Take  Dosem’s 
Vivifier  for  that  Tired  Feeling,”  she  read.  The  testimonials  of  the 
persons  that  had  been  cured  were  very  interesting,  and  she  did  not 
skip  a word. 

“Frawd’s  Restorative  Will  Cure  You,”  appeared  on  the  opposite 
page.  “Have  you  tried  Pippin’s  Paiii  Killer?”  next  greeted  her.  Then 
she  was  informed  that  “Fakem’s  Aquazone”  would  kill  every  disease 
germ  in  the  body.  Plainly,  there  was  no  need  of  suffering  longer.  Mrs. 
Clapsaddle  had  never  used  any  patent  medicines,  but  these  wonderful 
testimonials  decided  her  to  try  a bottle  of  each  of  those  so  highly  recom- 
mended. But  “Dosem’s  Vivifier” — she  would  — yes,  indeed,  she  would 
have  two  of  that,  for  it  was  the  one  recommended  by  the  great  Dr. 
Maltage,  whose  sermons  she  read  every  week.  And  Congressman 
Beaver,  her  own  congressman,  said  he  was  cured  by  “Frawd’s  Restora- 
tive,” so  it  must  be  fine. 

By  the  end  of  the  next  week,  Mrs.  Clapsaddle’s  cupboard  shelves 
resembled  a miniature  drug  store.  Frawd’s  Restorative  touched  shoul- 
ders with  Fakem’s  Aquazone,  while  Dosem’s  Vivifier  and  Pippin’s  Pain 
Killer  crowded  each  other  with  claims  for  recognition.  Beside,  there 
was  a box  of  “Green  Pills  for  Blue  People,”  which  Mrs.  Clapsaddle 
thought  might  be  useful  as  she  felt  so  blue. 

Mrs.  Clapsaddle  had  now  only  to  lie  on  her  lounge  when  her  scanty 
meals  were  over,  take  her  medicine,  and  get  well.  But  the  medicines 
were  a little  disappointing.  After  the  delightful  exhilaration  which  fol- 
lowed each  dose,  a dreadful  depression  took  possession  of  her,  which 
continued  until  it  was  time  for  more  medicine.  She  found  herself  begin- 
ning to  look  forward  eagerly  to  the  taking  of  the  doses,  as  they  were 
such  a relief  from  that  feeling  of  “goneness”  which  troubled  her. 

“What  you  need,”  said  her  friend  Hazel  Morton,  who  called  one 
morning  with  some  magazines,  “is  to  stop  thinking  so  much  about 
your  ailments.  It  is  enougii  to  make  anyone  sick,  living  in  the  house 
all  the  time,  as  you  do.  Get  out  of  doors  all  3-ou  can.  The  weather  will 
soon  be  warm  enough  for  you  to  work  a little  in  3'our  garden,  and  out- 
door air  exercise  will  be  better  for  j^ou  than  any  medicine.  Your  back 
is  well  now,  is  it  not?” 

“Yes,”  admitted  Mrs.  Clapsaddle,  “it  got  well  before  I tried  the  Pain 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


181 


Killer.  But  I am  very  weak  and  nervous.  Her  faded  blue  eyes  gazed 
wistfully  up  at  the  bright  vivacious  face  of  the  young  girl. 

“Oh!”  comforted  Hazel,  “you’ll  come  out  all  right,  I’m  sure.  If  I 
were  you,  I should  quit  drinking  tea  and  coffee.  What  we  eat  and 
drink  has  much  to  do  with  the  way  we  feel.  I have  brought  you  a loaf 
of  graham  bread;  let  me  set  it  in  the  cupboard.  You  need  not  get  up.” 
As  she  opened  the  cupboard  doors,  the  girl’s  quick  eyes  caught  sight 
of  the  nostrums,  and  with  difficulty  she  suppressed  the  sudden  laughter 
that  bubbled  to  her  lips. 

“Why,”  she  exclaimed,  “it  isn’t  any  wonder  you  are  sick.  Have 
you  really  been  taking  these  things  all  this  time,  Mrs.  Clapsaddle? 
They’re  fakes,  every  one  of  them.  That  is  nothing  but  cheap  whiskey,” 
she  said,  pointing  to  Frawd’s  Restorative,  “and  Dosem’s  Vivifier  is  very 
dangerous,  for  it  contains  coca  as  well  as  alcohol.” 

“In  this  health  journal,”  she  went  on,  turning  the  pages,  “there’s  a 
department  devoted  to  exposing  medical  frauds.  See  this  about  Fakem’s 
Aquazone,  for  instance,  Tt  is  composed  of  water  with  the  addition  of 
enough  sulphuric  and  sulphurous  acids  to  make  it  taste  sour.  It  costs 
less  than  three  cents  a gallon  to  produce.  Some  children  have  died 
from  using  it.’  And  the  Green  Pills  for  Blue  People  are  made  of  green 
vitriol,  starch  and  sugar.  It’s  a wicked  shame  that  you  should  have 
been  fooled  into  spending  money  on  such  things.” 

• “But  there  must  be  good  in  some  of  them,”  objected  Mrs.  Clap- 
saddle.  “Think  of  the  people  that  have  been  cured  I See  their  tes- 
timonials I” 

“Yes,”  laughed  Hazel,  “but  some  of  these  testimonials  have  been 
proved  to  be  as  big  frauds  as  the  medicines.  Some  are  written  by  silent 
partners  in  the  business ; many  are  paid  for,  prominent  people  receiving 
large  sums,  and  poor  people  a few  dollars  or  some  photographs,  or 
some  of  the  medicine.  Others  are  from  vain  people  who  love  to  have 
their  pictures  in  the  papers  and  can’t  get  them  in  any  other  way.  But, 
Mrs.  Clapsaddle,  I am  learning  from  these  health  journals,  that  if  people 
are  careful,  they  will  rarely,  if  ever,  need  medicine.  If  you  will  read 
them,  I am  sure  they  will  interest  and  help  you.” 

“Now,  please  don’t  be  offended,”  she  pleaded  as  she  arose  to  go. 
“If  you  are  not  vexed  with  me,  promise  that  you’ll  go  to  church  with 
me  next  Sunday  if  you  are  able.  You  ought  to  be  out  more;  it  would 


182 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


cheer  you  to  go  to  church.”  “All  right,”  responded  Mrs.  Clapsaddle,  if 
the  weather  permits,  and  I feel  able,  I will  go.” 

“However,  as  soon  as  Hazel  had  left  the  house,  Mrs.  Clapsaddle, 
who  was  really  hurt  and  offended,  pushed  the  health  journals  uncere- 
moniously under  the  lounge.  “Just  as  if  Dr.  Maltage’s  testimonial  could 
be  a fraud ! And  all  the  papers  printing  his  wonderful  sermons ! She 
thinks  that  she  knows  more  than  that  great  man !”  And  she  picked  up 
a patent  medicine  almanac  she  had  got  at  the  drug  store,  and  read  over 
the  wonderful  list  of  cures  once  more.  In  spite  of  herself,  when  she 
went  next  to  her  medicine  shelf,  she  eyes  somewhat  suspiciously  the 
array  of  half-empty  bottles,  feeling  almost  glad  their  contents  were  so 
nearly  gone.  What  if  Hazel  was  right?  But  she  could  not  be.  It  was 
impossible  that  Dr.  Maltage  and  Congressman  Beaver  should  not  know. 

When  the  bottles  were  all  emptied,  IMrs.  Clapsaddle  regretted  she 
had  not  purchased  a larger  supply,  for  she  knew  they  were  cheaper 
bought  in  quantity.  She  was  really  feeling  better ; and,  of  course,  her 
improved  spirits  and  increased  appetite  must  be  due  to  the  medicines. 
She  never  thought  of  giving  the  credit  to  her  out-door  work  in  the 
vegetable  garden  and  flower  beds.  Hazel  had  been  wrong  about  Dosem’s 
Vivifier,  anyway.  She  always  felt  better  after  taking  that. 

If  it  had  been  possible,  IMrs.  Clapsaddle  would  have  invested  with- 
out delay  in  a new  supply  of  medicine.  But  the  rent  had  to  be  met, 
her  supply  of  money  was  low,  and  no  more  pension  was  forthcoming 
for  some  weeks.  Could  she  do  without  medicine  for  awhile?  It  would 
be  hard,  for  she  felt  “all  gone”  without  it. 

Two  days  passed.  Mrs.  Clapsaddle  was  miserably  nervous.  Her  old 
symptoms  seemed  to  be  returning.  “O,  I shall  be  real  sick  again  if  I 
can’t  have  some  medicine.  What  shall  I do?  I wonder  if  there  is  not 
a cheaper  kind  that  would  do  till  I have  more  money?” 

She  picked  up  the  magazine  in  which  she  had  seen  the  Vivifier 
advertisement  and  turned  its  pages  eagerly.  But  no  cheaper  medicine 
was  offered.  With  a sigh  she  dropped  the  magazine  and  leaned  her 
head  upon  her  hands.  A knock  at  the  door  awoke  her  from  her  reverie. 
She  opened  the  door  and  peered  into  the  twilight.  In  a few  brisk  words 
the  visitor  told  his  errand.  He  was  agent  for  a medical  company  and 
had  learned  that  she  was'  in  poor  health,  so  he  called  to  see  if  she  would 
let  him  help  her.  Mrs.  C.  was  naturally  suspicious  of  strangers,  but 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


183 


this  man’s  kindness  and  her  own  great  need  caused  her  to  admit  him. 
He  soon  had  the  poor  woman’s  story  of  her  sickness  and  her  present 
weak  feelings  for  want  of  medicine.  He  expressed  great  sympathy  for 
her,  and  said  that  his  house  permitted  him  to  give  five  bottles  free  of 
their  great  remedy  for  a run-down  condition,  asking  only  the  person’s 
name  to  a prepared  testimonial,  saying  the  medicine  had  effected  a cure. 

Mrs.  Clapsaddle  was  greatly  impressed  by  the  philanthropic  spirit 
of  the  medical  firm,  but  when  the  agent  produced  the  testimonial  for  her 
to  sign,  she  said,  “Why,  you  don’t  want  me  to  sign  it  before  I try  the 
medicine,  do  you?” 

“Oh ! that’s  all  right,”  he  answered.  “It  is  sure  to  cure  you ; can’t 
fail.  You’ll  soon  feel  like  a different  woman.”  Mrs.  Clapsaddle  picked 
up  the  testimonial.  With  a start  she  read  the  heading,  “Stufflie’s 
Salted  Whisky.”  “Oh !”  she  cried,  “you  did  not  tell  me  it  was  whisky. 
You  said  it  was  medicine.  I never  touched  whisky  in  my  life.  Why, 
I’m  a church  member!” 

The  man  laughed  aloud.  “My  dear  woman,  didn’t  you  know  that 
the  Restorative  you  said  did  so  much  good,  is  just  a cheap  kind  of 
whisky,  sweetened  and  flavored,  and  the  Vivifier  is  the  same  with  coca 
added?  We  don’t  fool  the  people  by  calling  our  whisky  any  fancy 
names;  we  make  an  article  that  medical  doctors  and  doctors  of  divinity 
alike  endorse.  Ours  is  no  common  whisky.  It  is  a medicine.  Read  what 
these  ministers  say  about  it.  You’re  a church  member,  you  say.” 

Tremblingly  she  took  the  book  offered  her  and  read.  The  whisky 
medicine  certainly  was  endorsed  by  doctors  and  ministers.  The  man 
was  not  lying.  And  there,  sure  enough,  was  the  picture  of  the  minister 
who  buried  dear  John.  And  he  said  it  cured  him.  It  must  be  a good 
thing.  But  she  wished, they  called  it  by  some  other  name.  She  looked 
at  the  name  again.  “Why  do  you  put  salt  in  it?”  she  asked. 

“O,  salt  is  a great  germ  cure,  you  know.  What  the  whiskey  will  not 
cure,  the  salt  will,  and  what  the  salt  won’t  cure,  the  whisky  will,  so  you 
see  it  is  perfect.  It  takes  only  a very  few  grains  of  salt  to  a bottle.  You 
may  not  notice  it,  but  it’s  there  doing  its  work.” 

It  was  not  so  hard  to  gain  Mrs.  Clapsaddle’s  consent  to  sign  the 
testimonial,  after  she  had  read  the  testimony  of  the  minister  who  buried 

her  husband.  She  hated  to  do  it,  but  five  bottles  of  medicine  free 

why,  that  was  five  dollars  saved ! She  would  be  well  before  it  was  all 


184 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


used.  So  down  went  the  signature  in  trembling  hand,  “Mrs.  John  Clap- 
saddle,  127  Tremaine  St.” 

The  man  left  one  bottle  of  the  “medicine,”  and  said  he  would  send 
the  remainder  in  a few  days. 

Hazel  Morton,  who  had  been  away  on  a prolonged  visit,  called  upon 
her  return  to  see  her  friend,  and  to  ask  her  to  go  to  prayer-meeting. 
Receiving  no  reply  to  her  knock,  she  pushed  the  door  open  and  went  in. 
She  was  greeted  by  a disheveled  woman,  walking  somewhat  unsteadily 
across  the  floor. 

The  unsteady  movements,  the  thick  speech,  and  the  unmistakable 
od  >r,  told  a pitiful  story.  Mrs.  Clapsaddle  was  sobered  by  the  shock 
of  discovery,  and  she  realized  that  Hazel  understood.  She  burst  into 
a fit  of  sobbing,  and  dropped  back  upon  the  lounge.  “O,  Hazel,”  she 
cried,  “the  man  said  it  was  only  medicine,  good  medicine.” 

“Dear  Mrs.  Clapsaddle,”  said  Hazel,  softly  touching  the  trembling 
woman’s  arm,  “I  came  to  ask  you  to  go  with  me  to  prayer-meeting, 
but  shall  we  not  have  a prayer-meeting  right  here  by  ourselves,  you  and 
I?  No  one  shall  ever  know  about  — about  — O,  Mrs.  Clapsaddle,  I am 
so  sorry  for  you !” 

“I’ll  do  anything  you  say,”  she  sobbed.  “If  I had  listened  to  your 
warnings,  I would  never  have  done  this  wicked  thing.”  The  young 
girl  and  the  elderly  woman  kneeled  together,  and  asked  help  of  the 
Great  Physician  that  the  craving  for  alcoholics  which  had  unwittingly 
come  upon  one  of  His  children,  might  be  removed. 

The  next  day  Hazel  brought  with  her  a sweet-faced  nurse,  w’ho 
stayed  with  Mrs.  Clapsaddle  until  she  felt  well  enough  to  be  left  alone. 

The  remaining  bottles  of  “medicine”  were  broken  to  pieces  in  the 
little  back-yard. 

The  following  winter  a friend  living  in  California  sent  Mrs.  Clap- 
saddle a Stufflie’s  Salted  Whisky  advertisement  with  a picture  of  an 
aged  woman,  and  a testimonial  bearing  her  name.  The  friend  asked, 
“Can  it  be  possible  that  you  have  aged  so  rapidly?”  The  picture  was 
that  of  Mrs.  Clapsaddle’s  grandmother.  The  agent  had  abstracted  it 
from  a pile  of  old  photographs  while  Mrs.  Clapsaddle  had  been  reading 
jjis  booklets. — Tract, 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


185 


HANDICAPPED. 

Little  Mrs.  Winston  turned  from  her  tea-table  with  a sigh  of  satis- 
faction, pushed  aside  the  heavy  window  curtain  and  looked  out  into  the 
twilight  of  a blustering  March  day.  A trail  of  pale  gold,  left  by  the 
setting  sun,  was  the  only  gleam  of  brightness  in  a sky  full  of  gray  clouds, 
scurrying  over  a world  of  brown  earth  and  muddy  pools,  fast  skimming 
with  ice.  She  shivered  as  she  came  back  to  the  light  and  warmth  within, 
the  blazing  woodfire  on  the  hearth  making  a halo  of  her  boy’s  sunny 
curls  as  he  lay  stretched  upon  a fur  rug,  poring  over  a picture  book. 

She  stooped  to  lay  a light  hand  on  the  hot  cheek  next  to  the  fire, 
moved  an  armchair  to  a more  inviting  angle,  and  went  back  to  the  table. 
Nowhere  could  a touch  improve  that.  From  the  glass  dish  of  pussy- 
willows and  hardy  ferns  in  the  centre,  flanked  by  crisp,  lemon-tinted 
lettuce  and  amber  peaches  in  their  lucent  syrup,  to  the  shining  silver 
service,  and  the  blossom-sprigged  china  awaiting  the  hot  dishes  on  the 
kitchen  stove,  all  was  perfect.  She  picked  up  an  uncut  magazine  and 
laid  it  down  again  with  the  cutter  half  through  the  first  leaf ; threaded  a 
needle  with  embroidery  silk  and  put  it  back  in  her  work  basket ; drew 
her  low  chair  near  the  larger  one  in  the  chimney  corner,  and  piled 
another  stock  upon  the  glowing  coals.  She  could  settle  to  nothing. 
Clearly  Mrs.  Winston  was  waiting  in  suspense.  “Poor  fellow,”  she 
said,  thinking  aloud,  “he  will  need  all  the  brightness  we  can  give  him,” 
and  again  she  sighed,  a sigh  of  sympathy.  Her  heart  was  heavy  for 
her  husband,  who  had  been  hastily  summoned  to  the  deathbed  of  a 
brother,  in  a distant  state.  From  rumors  that  had  come  to  them  for 
several  years,  it  was  feared  that  bereavement  was  not  the  saddest  feature 
of  the  trouble  in  his  family.  Letters  telling  of  the  arrival  of  her  husband, 
and  of  the  death  and  funeral  quickly  following,  had  not  lessened  these 
fears. 

At  last  the  familiar  ring  at  the  doorbell  sent  her  into  the  hall,  eager 
questions  on  her  lips.  These  died  into  silence  at  the  sight  of  a shrinking 
little  figure,  in  a pitifully  small  suit  of  mourning,  whose  hand  her  hus- 
band held,  drawing  the  child  forward,  with  the  words,  “I  had  to  bring 
her.  I hated  to  add  to  your  cares,  but  there  was  no  help  for  it.” 

“Never  mind  me,”  she  answered,  quickly,  “I  dare  say  she  will  be 


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STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


more  help  than  trouble,  and  Bert  will  be  so  glad  of  a playmate.  Now 
we  will  have  tea  before  either  of  you  go  upstairs.” 

“Yes,  indeed,  let  us  have  tea,  and  how  good  the  oysters  smell.  I am 
glad  you  have  something  hot.  I feel  as  if  every  drop  of  blood  were  a 
separate  point  of  ice  pricking  my  veins.” 

Sitting  at  the  table,  unable  to  eat,  the  little  girl  had  not  spoken. 
Bert’s  shy  attempts  at  making  friends  with  her  brought  a convulsive, 
sobbing  catch  in  her  throat,  so  distressing  that  Mrs.  Winston  waited 
only  to  pour  the  tea  and  attend  to  her  boy’s  wants  before  taking  the 
child  upstairs. 

A little  room,  opening  out  of  her  own,  was  soon  made  ready,  and 
preparations  for  bed  went  on,  still  in  silence.  “What  is  your  name,  dear 
child?”  she  asked  at  last. 

The  dark-rimmed  eyes  were  lifted  to  hers  for  a moment,  but  the 
quivering  lips  could  not  frame  the  words  to  answer. 

“You  will  not  be  afraid,  or  lonely,  with  the  door  open,”  went  on 
the  soothing  voice,  “and  I can  hear  if  my  little  girl  needs  anything 
in  the  night.” 

“I’m  mamma’s  little  girl,  if  I did  have  to  leave  her,”  in  a defiant 
tone. 

“O,  yes.  But  all  little  girls  like  to  visit  their  aunties,  and  I have  to 
call  you  that  because  you  do  not  tell  me  your  name.” 

“Edna,”  in  a lower  key. 

“You  were  named  for  your  father,  then.  I knew  him  when  he  was 
a nice  little  boy,  no  older  than  you.” 

The  child  threw  herself  across  the  bed  with  a heartbroken  wail, 
“O,  papa  dear,  papa  dear ! I cannot  bear  it ! I cannot  bear  it ! God  is  not 
good.  Papa  did  not  know  what  he  was  doing  when  he  was  cruel,  and 
God  does  know  what  He  is  doing !” 

Mrs.  Winston  gathered  the  writhing  little  form  in  her  arms.  “What 
is  it,  dear  child?” 

“The  preacher  said  no  drunkard  could  enter  heaven.  Papa  was  so 
bonny  when  he  was  good,  and  we  loved  him  so ! He  used  to  hurt 
mamma  when  he  wasn’t  himself,  hurt  mamma.  But  we  wouldn’t  punish 
him  forever  and  ever.  We  would  remember  how  nice  he  was  some 
times.  Say  it  isn’t  true,  auntie.” 

“Can  you  listen  to  me,  Edna?”  holding  the  thin,  trembling  hands  m 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


187 


her  soft  grasp.  A movement  of  the  head  on  her  arm  assented.  “God 
is  good.  Mamma  and  you  loved  papa,  but  you  could  not  help  him?” 

A dreary  “No”  answered. 

“You  saw  him  grow  worse  and  worse  every  day.  God  loves  him 
more,  far  more  than  anyone  else  can,  and  he  has  taken  papa  out  of  a 
world  where  he  would  never  be  any  better.  God  loves  and  knows  how 
to  help.  Let  us  trust  papa  to  that  great  and  wise  love.” 

When  the  long-drawn  sobs  had  ceased  in  sleep,  Mrs.  Winston  went 
down  stairs  to  find  her  boy  asleep  on  the  couch,  her  husband  cowering 
over  the  fire.  Hastily  clearing  the  tea-table  she  had  set  with  so  much 
pride,  she  drew  her  low  chair  to  her  husband’s  side  and  waited  for  his 
version  of  the  dreadful  story  she  had  heard  upstairs. 

“It  was  worse  than  we  thought,”  he  began.  “Nothing  was  left, 
even  for  necessaries.  The  whole  family  were  ragged  and  famished. 
Neighbors  had  brought  in  food  and  coal  before  I arrived.  There  was 
not  a trace  of  my  brother  in  the  bloated  face  we  shut  away  under  the 
coffin  lid.” 

“If  you  had  only  known  sooner ! But  they  were  so  far  away.” 

“I  could  not  have  helped  him.  It  was  all  his  own  fault.  On  her 
deathbed  my  mother  reminded  us  of  the  birthright  of  evil  we  had 
inherited,  and  begged  us  never  to  awaken  the  sleeping  appetite.  We 
promised.  I met. every  offer  of  the  stuff  by  frankly  avowing  the  pledge 
to  mother.  I had  to  endure  some  good-natured  banter  and  some  ill- 
mannered  sneers,  but  a laugh  often  turned  both  aside.  Ned  would 
flush  up  in  wrath,  making  himself  a fit  subject  for  teasing.” 

“But  he  was  standing  firm  when  I last  knew  him ; before  I left  our 
home  village.” 

“Yes,  and  such  a foolish  thing  kindled  the  flame  at  last;  a sudden 
fancy  for  a city  guest  in  a friend’s  house,  when  he  had  really  loved 
another  from  childhood.  The  city  girl  was  bright  and  attractive;  she 
liked  to  show  her  power  over  him,  and  he  gave  way  to  her  tempting  offer 
of  a glass  of  wine,  again  and  again.  She  soon  went  away,  caring  nothing 
for  him,  but  his  ruin  was  sure,  even  then.  He  tried  to  rally  time  after 
time,  only  to  fail  under  the  many  temptations  around  him.  The  girl 
he  loved  was  willing  to  risk  her  life  with  his,  she  had  always  loved  him. 
He  married  and  went  to  a prohibition  state,  but  he  was  not  safe  even 
there.  Prohibition  does  not  prohibit  in  the  drug  store  and  doctor’s 
office.” 


188 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


“Where  are  his  family  now?” 

“A  brother  of  his  wife  wanted  the  boy,  a winning  little  fellow.  His 
wife  went  home  to  her  mother  with  the  baby.  No  one  wanted  the  girl.  It 
was  more  than  hinted  to  me  that  I could  well  afford  to  take  her,  having 
no  daughter  of  my  own.” 

“I  am  not  sorry  to  have  a girl  in  the  house,  to  bear  me  company 
when  my  boy  asserts  his  sex  by  insisting  upon  living  out  doors.” 

“You  would  not  confess,  if  you  were  sorry,”  he  answered  with  a 
smile,  caressing  the  face  upturned  to  his. 

She  exclaimed  at  the  hot  touch  of  his  hand  and  hurried  him  off  to 
bed.  When  she  came  to  him,  after  settling  Bert  for  the  night,  he  was 
shaking  in  a chill.  A doctor  was  called,  who  at  once  spoke  the  dreaded 
word  — pneumonia. 

The  days  that  followed  were  like  a confused  dream  to  the  anxious 
wife.  She  hardly  noticed  the  children,  though  she  was  dimly  con- 
scious that  Edna  kept  her  boys  busy  and  content  by  the  arts  so  aptly 
learned  in  a drunkard’s  home.  Stopping  once  to  kiss  the  child,  she 
was  surprised  by  a passion  of  sobs,  when  she  said,  “Auntie  sees  how 
you  are  trying  to  help  her,  but  she  cannot  stay  now  to  tell  you  how 
much  she  loves  you  for  it.” 

“1  am  not  a burden  you  will  soon  get  rid  of,  as  Uncle  Tom  said 
you  would,  when  he  came  to  take  brother  away.” 

“You  shall  never  go  until  mamma  says  she  must  have  you  again. 
But  Uncle  Bob  needs  all  my  time  now,  I must  go  to  him.” 

With  slow-dropping,  thankful  tears,  Mrs.  Winston  heard  at  last  a 
word  of  hope  from  the  doctor’s  lips.  “But  you  must  take  the  greatest 
£are,”  he  cautioned.  “Give  him  a spoonful  of  brandy  every  hour.” 

“He  cannot  take  it,”  she  cried  in  dismay.  “Isn’t  there  something 
else?” 

“Nothing  else  will  tide  him  over  the  next  few  days.  He  may  go  off 
like  a flash  without  it.  I am  a temperance  man  myself,  but  in  such  a 
case,,  foolish  scruples  must  be  laid  aside.” 

“He  would  not  take  it,  if  he  knew.” 

“It  would  be  suicide  to  refuse.  If  you  care  so  little  for  your  hus- 
band’s life,  I care  for  my  professional  reputation,  which  is  at  stake.” 

She  gave  way  at  the  cruel  words.  She  could  stand  firm  by  herself, 
but  her  husband’s  life  was  more  to  her  than  her  own. 

The  spoonful  of  brandy  was  but  a beginning.  Strength  was  slow 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


189 


in  returning,  and  he  must  have  a bottle  of  beer  to  quicken  his  digestion ; 
when  able  to  again  take  up  his  business  cares,  he  came  home  so 
exhausted,  a glass  of  wine  was  necessary  to  restore  him.  His  wife’s 
gentle  warnings  and  entreaties  sent  him  to  outside  sources  for  the 
stimulants  his  awakened  appetite  craved.  A year  had  not  passed  before 
it  was  a common  thing  for  him  to  come  home  so  under  the  influence 
of  liquor,  he  had  to  sleep  it  off  before  appearing  in  his  family.  He  was 
always  good-tempered,  but  wife  and  boy  shrank  from  his  maudlin 
caresses.  Edna  always  gave  a sigh  of  relief  when  he  was  safely  asleep. 
She  knew  what  it  was  to  dread  violence. 

Penitence  and  promises  followed,  when  the  stupor  was  over,  but 
such  a little  thing  would  bring  about  his  fall  again;  an  invitation  to 
drink,  from  a friend,  the  sight  of  beer  bottles  at  a saloon  door,  the  flavor 
of  brandy  in  the  pudding  sauce,  when  dining  away  from  home,  the  sip 
of  wine  at  the  communion  table,  all  served  to  shatter  the  most  solemn 
pledges. 

Perhaps  the  hardest  to  bear  happened  one  spring  day,  when  hope 
was  stronger,  because  of  temptation  resisted  for  a longer  period  than 
ever  before.  Bert  had  been  ailing,  and  as  Mrs.  Winston  was  passing 
along  the  street,  she  met  her  pastor’s  wife,  who  spoke  of  the  boy’s 
pallor.  “He  needs  a tonic,”  she  said.  “I  always  make  my  own  black- 
berry wine  and  will  send  you  a bottle.” 

“Bert  is  almost  well,”  answered  the  mother  quickly.  “His  cough 
will  wear  off  with  warmer  weather.” 

“I  shall  send  a bottle  to  hasten  the  cure,”  insisted  the  lady,  and 
Mrs.  Winston  was  too  timid  to  speak  out  the  indignant  remonstrance 
surging  within.  'She  blamed  herself  all  the  afternoon  for  not  making 
the  refusal  more  decided. 

Edna  met  her  at  the  door,  in  the  tempest  of  tears  to  which  she  so 
rarely  gave  way.  Inside,  her  husband  lay  on  the  bed  in  a heavy  sleep  of 
drunkenness.  On  the  couch  her  boy  was  gasping  in  the  throes  of  a 
fit  of  nausea.  When  he  was  relieved  and  sleeping  lightly  in  her  arms, 
she  listened  to  the  story  the  little  girl  told  between  her  sobs. 

“Mrs.  Wilde  came  to  the  door  with  a bottle,  and  Uncle  Rob  went 
out  to  see  her.  When  he  came  back,  he  mixed  a glassful  of  something  out 
of  the  bottle  with  sugar  and  water,  for  Bert.  He  didn’t  like  it,  and 
uncle  said  I must  coax  him  to  take  it.  He  said  I could  do  it  if  I wasn’t 
so  stubborn.  Uncle  Rob  doesn’t  love  me,  auntie.  When  I cried,  Bert 


190 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


swallowed  the  stuff,  and  in  a little  while  it  made  him  so  sick.  O auntie, 
is  he  poisoned?  Will  he  die?” 

“He  is  indeed  poisoned,  but  the  first  time  will  not  kill  him.  Where 
is  the  bottle  ?” 

“Uncle  drank  the  rest  of  it  and  went  out.  He  came  in  — like  he 
is  now.” 

The  poor  man  blamed  no  one  but  himself.  “1  wanted  to  taste  the 
thing,  and,  for  an  excuse,  mixed  a dose  for  Bert,  as  the  woman  left 
directions  for  you.  It  maddened  me  to  see  the  children  shrink  from  me 
and  refuse  to  obey.  It  is  true,  I cannot  bear  the  girl ; she  reminds  me 
of  that  fatal  journey.” 

“Shall  we  send  her  to  her  mother?” 

“No.  That  would  do  me  no  good,  and  I can  see  she  is  a comfort 
to  you  and  the  boy.  The  mite  has  been  through  it  all  before,  and  is 
wise  beyond  her  — size.” 

Bert  awoke  in  terror.  “I  did  not  know  I was  breaking  my  pledge, 
mamma.  Must  I go  on  like  papa  and  Uncle  Ned?  Edna  is  afraid  I 
will.” 

“No,  my  boy ! A soldier  does  not  give  up  the  battle  with  the  first 
wound.  We  will  fight  on,  and  God  will  help.” 

“I  do  not  like  the  taste  of  it,  mamma.  The  thought  of  it  makes 
me  sick.” 

“We’ll  thank  God  for  that.” 

“And,  mamma,  when  I’m  a man  I mean  to  be  a doctor,  and  help 
people  fight  against  the  dreadful  thing  when  they  are  too  sick  to  fight  for 
them.selves.” 

For  ten  years  the  struggle  lasted.  Then  another  attack  of  pneu- 
monia found  Robert  Winston  without  strength  to  resist  its  inroads. 
When  the  end  came,  the  love-light  shone  again  in  his  eyes,  as  he  opened 
them  for  the  last  time  upon  those  of  his  wife,  dimmed  with  tears, 
kneeling  beside  him. 

“Be  glad  for  me,  sweetheart,”  he  whispered,  “and  glad  for  your- 
self. This  is  the  only  way  out  of  the  disgrace  — and  the  sin.” 

“God  knows  you  could  not  help  it,  dear  one !” 

“And  He  has  come  now  with  the  only  help.  Good-night.” — A story 
from  real  life  in  tract. 


191 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


A PAYING  RESULT. 

The  landlady  Jooked  at  him  disapprovingly.  Young  men  would  be 
young  men,  she  knew  that,  but  she  had  hoped  better  things  of  this  one, 
who  came  to  her  with  such  clear  eyes,  with  such  a clean,  ruddy  com- 
plexion, and  so  carefully  groomed,  that  it  was  a pleasure  to  look  at  him. 

“You  are  late  this  morning,”  she  said,  with  unconscious  severity. 

“Yes,”  he  answered,  sulkily,  “a  fellow  can’t  be  up  half  the  night 
and  out  with  the  larks.” 

“That’s  the  trouble  with  you,  I guess  — too  much  lark,”  she  replied, 
with  grim  pleasantry.  “You’d  better  cut  it  out,  my  lad.  I have  boys 
myself,  and  I know  how  mothers  feel.” 

The  young  man  winced.  Better  than  she  could  tell  him,  he  knew 
how  his  mother  would  have  felt  to  hear  him  stumbling  up  to  his  room 
in  the  small  hours  of  the  night,  but  she  should  never  know  if  he  could 
help  it.  Already  weak  resolutions  were  forming  in  his  befogged  brain  to 
“cut  it  out,”  as  the  landlady  had  said,  and  he  looked-  up  at  her  with 
an  unsteady  smile.  “You  bet  I will,  Mrs.  Parks.  No  more  wine  sup- 
pers for  yours  truly.” 

Mrs.  Parks  sighed  as  she  went  about  her  work.  Even  to  her  not 
over  critical  mind,  the  slang  and  tone  in  which  it  was  uttered  showed  the 
deterioration  in  the  young  man’s  character  quite  as  clearly  as  the  blood- 
shot eyes,  and  downcast,  shamed  look  on  his  flushed  face.  “Too  bad  — 
too  bad,”  she  mused. 

Two  years  ago  Harry  Brayton  had  come  to  this  larger  town  from 
an  inland  village,  to  work  in  a bank  as  junior  clerk.  He  had  been  so 
proud  of  his  position,  so  sure  of  working  up  and  earning  promotion, 
that  at  first  he  had  bent  every  energy  to  doing  his  work  well,  and 
pleasing  his  employers.  He  had  been  brought  up  to  be  a total  abstainer, 
but,  unhappily  for  him,  the  bank  force  was  made  up  mainly  of  “society 
men.” 

A drunkard  would  not  have  been  tolerated  among  them  for  a 
moment,  but  the  moderate  drinker,  the  fellow  who  could  toss  off  a few 
glasses  of  wine  of  an  evening  and  do  his  work  the  next  day,  was  their 
ideal  of  strength,  and  the  atmosphere  insensibly  affected  the  younger  and 
untried  man. 

Several  saloonkeepers  were  customers  of  the  bank,  and  his  duties  as 
coi!er(.!r  led  him  often  into  their  places  of  business,  so,  little  by  little, 


192 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


his  “prejudices  of  education,”  as  the  cashier  called  temperance  prin- 
ciples, were  undermined,  and  he  began  to  accept  the  treats  so  freely- 
offered,  at  first  with  reluctance,  but  later  on  with  evident  pleasure. 

“He’s  coming  to  it  fine,”  said  the  barkeeper,  with  a wink  to  the 
proprietor,  as  Harry  left  the  place  one  day,  wiping  his  lips.  “Don’t  have 
to  urge  him  now.  He’ll  make  a valuable  customer  before  long.” 

These  were  not  the  dens  where  such  unspeakable  things  Avere  done, 
that  even  the  mayor  had  to  take  notice  occasionally,  but  respectable, 
high-toned  places,  where  a gentleman  could  go  in  and  out  without 
reproach. 

Harry  had  been  a church-goer  in  the  home  town,  but  here  it  was 
different.  Work  was  strenuous  on  Saturdays,  and  “the  boys”  usually 
had  something  planned  for  Sunday  quite  foreign  to  church,  and  the  bells 
which  at  first  caused  him  uneasiness  of  conscience,  now  scarcely 
awakened  a thought.  The  downward  road  is  a long  and  easy  slope  for 
some,  but  for  others  a toboggan  slide,  swift,  and  terribly  certain  as  to 
the  end. 

“Mother,  I feel  worried  about  Harry,”  said  Nettie  Brayton  one 
morning,  as  the  two  sat  together  at  the  breakfast  table.  “He  hasn’t 
written  for  weeks,  and  when  we  see  him,  it  is  for  so  short  a time,  that 
we  know  almost  nothing  of  his  real  self.” 

A sigh  escaped  Mrs.  Brayton.  “I  know,  Nettie,”  she  replied  sadly. 
“I  feel  that  I am  losing  my  boy,  but  what  are  we  to  do?” 

“If  you  can  spare  me,  mother,  I would  like  to  go  down  and  spend 
a week  with  him,”  replied  Nettie  thoughtfully.  “Surely  in  that  time 
I should  learn  something  of  his  inner  life,  for  we  have  always  been 
chums.  Next  Sunday  is  Temperance  Sunday,  and  I would  like  to  see  its 
observance  in  a large  town.” 

So  it  came  about  that,  when  Harry  came  home  to  his  six  o’clock 
dinner  that  memorable  day,  an  eager  face  peeped  out  of  the  shabby  little 
parlor,  and  seeing  him  alone,  two  loving  arms  Avere  throAvn  around  his 
neck,  and  a warm  kiss  pressed  his  feA^erish  lips.  “Why  Nettie,  Avhy 
didn’t  you  let  a fellow  know  you  were  coming?”  he  stammered  in  his 
surprise  and  chagrin,  for  he  could  not  help  realizing  that  he  Avas  not  a 
fit  object  for  a sister’s  pure  kiss.  He  had  just  throA\m  aAvay  the  stub  of 
a cheap  cigar,  and  last  night’s  excess  Avas  yet  in  eA’idence  in  his  breatli. 

“I  wanted  to  surprise  you.  Don’t  you  remember  Iioaa^  aa'c  used  to 
play  surprise  when  we  were  little  tads  together?” 


REV.  SAM  JONES 

■'I’ve  seen  a man  and  a dog  go  into  a saloon,  and  in  an  hour  the  man  would 
get  beastly  drunk  and  stagger  out  like  a hog,  while  the  dog  would  come  out  and 
walk  away  like  a Gentleman.” — Sam  Jones. 


THE  POLYGOT  PETITION 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


193 


Harry  was  really  glad  to  see  his  sister,  after  the  first  shock  of  the 
meeting  was  over,  but  her  heart  sank  as  the  truth  came  home  to  her  of 
the  sad  change  in  him  since  he  had  left  home,  and  she  fell  on  her  knees 
by  her  bedside  in  an  agony  of  weeping,  when  at  last  she  was  shown  to 
her  room  for  the  night,  as  she  realized  what  this  knowledge  she  had 
gained  would  mean  to  her  mother.  She  was-  a Christian  girl,  and  prayer 
her  first  recourse  in  time  of  trouble.  “O  pitiful  Christ,  spare  my  brother 
and  give  him  back  to  us,”  she  sobbed. 

“I’m  glad  you’ve  come,  miss,”  said  the  somewhat  voluble  Mrs. 
Parks,  next  day.  Harry  had  eaten  a hasty  breakfast  and  hurried  away. 

“The  boss’ll  kick  if  I’m  not  on  time,  but  amuse  yourself  till  after 
lunch.  Sis,  and  I’ll  get  out  early  and  chase  the  elephant  with  you  this 
afternoon,”  he  had  said,  as  he  kissed  her  good-bye.  He  had  made  a 
careful  toilet,  and  seemed  more  like  himself  after  his  night’s  rest. 

Mrs.  Parks  was  sitting  in  his  vacant  chair,  her  elbows  on  the  table 
in  a confidential  mood.  “I  have  boys  of  my  own,  and  I have  a mother’s 
feelings  when  young  men  that  are  away  from  home  come  into  my  house. 
I took  a liking  to  your  brother  from  the  first,  and  I says  to  my  husband, 
‘There’s  a boy  that’s  been  brought  up  by  a good  mother,  and  taught  to 
do  right,  and  I know  it.’  He  was  that  clean  and  nice  about  the  house  — 
but  I don’t  like  that  crowd  he  trains  with  now,  and  that’s  the  truth. 
Society  swells,  with  their  money  and  their,  loose  ideas,  aren’t  very  safe 
examples  for  a young  man  who  has  his  way  to  make  in  the  world,  but 
they  never  seem  to  think.  To  have  a rollicking  good  time,  and  get 
just  as  near  the  edge  of  the  pit  as  they  can  and  not  fall  in  head  foremost, 
seems  to  be  all  they  care  about.” 

“You  are  right,  Mrs.  Parks,”  Nettie  said,  as  her  entertainer  .paused 
for  breath.  “Harry  and  I have  been  brought  up  carefully  by  the  dearest 
and  best  of  mothers,  but  even  a mother  cannot  follow  her  boy  out  into 
the  cruel  world;  she  can  only  pray  — and  weep,  when  she  must,”  and 
tears  filled  the  sister’s  eyes. 

“I’m  not  saying  that  your  brother  is  as  bad  as  some  of  the  rest 
of  them,”  interposed  Mrs.  Parks  hastily,  at  sight  of  the  tears,  “but  he  is 
in  danger,  anyone  can  see  that.  When  a young  fellow  gets  where  he 
isn’t  afraid  of  the  saloons,  and  of  wine  suppers,  he  has  lost  his  best 
hold.  I hope  you  can  help  him.” 

With  all  her  heart  Nettie  echoed  the  kindly  wish,  and  by  every 


194 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


means  in  her  power  she  strove  to  bring  the  wholesome  influences  of  home 
upon  him  in  the  days  which  followed. 

“I’ll  tell  you  how  it  happened,  Net,  that  you  caught  me  looking  and 
feeling  so  like  a bum  that  day  you  came,”  he  said,  one  evening.  “I 
ought  not  to  have  gone  to  that  wine  supper,  I know  that  now ; but  it 
was  the  first  really  swell  function  I had  ever  had  a chance  at.  Ten 
dollars  a plate  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  you  know,  and  when  the 
governor  passed  around  free  tickets  to  some  of  us  — a sort  of  reward 
of  merit  for  good,  little  boys,  you  see  — why,  I was  just  too  tickled  to 
think  straight,  and  climbed  into  my  glad  rags  as  fast  as  I could,  and 
went  along.” 

“Who  is  the  governor,  Harry?”  Nettie  asked,  innocently. 

“Why,  Mr.  Nash,  the  president,”  Harry  colored  uneasily,  for  he 
knew  his  sister  was  not  so  ignorant  as  she  seemed.  “Of  course,  there 
were  muffs  there  who  turned  down  their  glasses  and  didn’t  even  drink 
their  lemon  punch,  but  somehow  I’m  not  built  that  way.” 

“I  wish  you  were,  Harry,  with  all  my  heart,”  replied  Nettie,  sadly. 
“1  wish  you  could  refuse  the  evil  and  deliberately  choose  the  good  before 
men.” 

“A  fellow  might  as  well  be  out  of  the  world  as  in  it  and  not  do  as 
others  do,”  remarked  Harry,  pettishly. 

“Were  those  ‘muffs’  you  speak  of,  so  very  low  down  in  the  social 
scale?” 

“No,  not  exactly,”  Harry  admitted  reluctantly.  “Judge  Lane,  Senator 
Ince,  and  others ; your  pious  sort,  all  of  them.” 

“Yet  I do  not  think  they  were  disgraced  because  they  could  walk 
straight  when  they  went  home,”  said  Nettie,  with  a sigh.  “Our  dear 
father  would  have  been  a ‘muff’  in  the  same  place ; are  you  more  manly 
than  he?” 

“I  shall  never  be  half  the  man  my  father  was,”  Harry  replied, 
gloomily.  “Talk  about  something  else,  Nettie.  I’m  getting  into  the 
dumps.” 

“Do  you  know  what  mother  found  in  father’s  diary  — in  his  own 
handwriting,  and  almost  the  last  entry  he  had  ever  made?” 

“What  was  it?”  asked  Harry. 

“ ‘My  dear,  dear  boy.  How  I wish  that  I might  bind  upon  his 
heart  that  most  true  and  important  scripture,  “Look  not  upon  the  wine 
when  it  is  red,  when  it  giveth  its  color  in  the  cup  — in  the  end  it  biteth 


STORIES  OF  HELL'S  COMMERCE 


195 


like  a serpent  and  stingeth  like  an  adder.”  ’ You  see,  father  was  loving 
you,  fearing  for  you  even  then.” 

“Don’t,  Net.  You  break  my  heart ” cried  Harry  in  a strange, 

muffled  voice,  as  he  arose  and  went  to  the  window,  where  he  stood 
looking  out  into  the  night  with  unseeing  eyes. 

It  was  a difficult  town  in  which  to  preach  the  gospel  of  temperance, 
yet  the  faithful  who  were  true  to  their  trust,  never  gave  up. 

The  recent  wonderful  victories  in  state  and  counties  had  made  the 
cause  more  popular  of  late,  and  the  W.  C.  T.  U.  women  were  making  an 
extra  effort  to  bring  the  subject  home  to  the  people  on  World’s  Tem- 
perance Sunday  as  they  had  never  done  before. 

“The  trouble  is,  that  there  won’t  be  a blessed  soul  there  that  needs 
it,”  remarked  Mrs.  Cummings,  regretfully.  “Only  the  Christian  people 
who  have  heard  temperance  texts  and  temperance  teaching  since  their 
infancy.” 

“I’m  not  so  sure  of  that,  Mrs.  Cummings,”  replied  the  president  of 
the  union,  Mrs.  Hicks.  “We  may  never  know,  but  I think  there  is  much 
good  done  by  our  public  meetings.  In  union  is  strength,  you  know,  and 
the  solid  front  shown  to  the  enemy  is  a power  for  good  in  itself.” 

“Well,  I’m  ready  to  face  the  enemy,  if  it’s  front  you  want,”  laughed 
Mrs.  Cummings,  who  was  a large,  finely  proportioned  woman,  “and 
I’ll  do  more  than  that  if  you  can  trace  up  any  real  results  from  the 
effort.  I’ll  give  ten  dollars  to  the  cause  for  every  case  you  find.” 

“I  hope  we  can  bankrupt  3^ou,  Mrs.  Cummings,”  cried  Mrs.  Hicks 
joyfully,  “and  you  may  be  sure  we  shall  be  out  with  a searchlight  after 
the  day  is  over.” 

Although  nearly  all  the  pastors  of  the  city  had  promised  to  preach 
along  specific  temperance  lines,  yet  it  was  thought  best  to  concentrate 
on  one  particular  church  and  unite  in  its  service  for  the  day.  It  was 
the  church  of  the  denomination  to  which  Nettie  belonged,  and  she  was 
looking  forward  to  the  service  with  hopeful  anticipation. 

It  was  a very  beautiful  church  and  to-day  it  v/as  profusely  decorated 
with  white  satin  ribbons  as  for  a bridal.  There  were  reserved  seats  near 
the  front,  and  presently  the  temperance  forces  came  marching  in,  while 
the  organist  played  a stirring  voluntary.  There  were  young  and  old 
among  them,  and  all  wore  the  white  ribbon,  the  emblem  of  temperance 
and  purity.  Tears  came  into  Nettie’s  eyes  as  slje  whispered  to  Harry, 
“How  I wish  that  mother  were  here  to  enjoy  it  with  us.” 


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STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


In  the  rear  of  the  house,  near  the  door,  sat  a man  who  would  attract 
attention  anywhere,  by  his  fine,  intelligent  face  and  commanding  figure. 
He  was  a stranger  in  the  churches  of  the  town,  and  he  could  not  him- 
self account  for  the  impulse  which  had  led  him  to  come  in  and  take  a 
seat  to-day,  but  having  come,  he  looked  around  with  an  interested  eye 
and  alert  ear.  Beside  him  sat  a fine,  manly  boy,  and  it  may  have  been 
the  passion  of  the  child  for  music  which  had  lured  him,  for  the  eyes  of 
the  boy  were  fixed  eagerly  upon  the  great  organ  and  its  player,  and 
later  upon  the  throng  of  white-ribboned  women. 

“Say,  father,  we  don’t  have  anything  like  that  down  at  The  Cabin, 
do  we?” 

The  father  shook  his  head.  “No,  son.  Hush,  kiddie,  the  folks’ll 
hear  you.” 

There  was  a story  wrapped  up  in  the  seemingly  simple  incident  of 
the  father  and  son  coming  to  church  that  particular  day,  for  the  father 
was  a bartender  in  one  of  the  saloons  of  the  city,  though  how  he  had 
drifted  into  such  an  ignoble  business  was  a wonder  to  those  who  knew 
him.  Upright  and  honest,  strictly  temperate,  it  seemed  a terrible 
anomaly  to  see  such  a man  handing  out  to  others  the  dangerous  stuff 
which  he  so  carefully  avoided  himself. 

The  boy’s  bright  eyes  sought  his  father’s  eagerly,  as  the  pastor  read 
the  Scripture,  “Woe  unto  him  who  putteth  the  bottle  to  his  neighbor’s 
lips,”  and  he  crept  closer  to  his  side  with  a loving,  protective  gesture  as 
the  reading  went  on.  The  pastor  was  terribly  in  earnest,  and  his  words 
fairly  burned  into  the  consciences  of  two  of  his  audience,  as  he  poured 
out  his  heart  in  an  eloquent  denunciation  of  the  evils  of  drink  selling 
and  of  drink  buying. 

Nettie  could  feel  Harry’s  form  tremble  beside  her,  as  the  sermon 
aroused  his  slumbering  conscience  to  an  almost  white  heat.  It  was 
such  a sermon  as  his  father  would  have  preached  to  him,  had  he  been 
living,  and  it  came  to  him  with  a strange  power  that  day,  as  if  he  were 
the  only  one  in  the  crowded  church  to  whom  the  pastor  was  speaking. 

There  was  an  opportunity  at  the  close  of  the  service  for  any  one 
who  wished  to  sign  the  pledge.  “The  merest  formality,”  whispered  l^Irs. 
Cummings  to  her  neighbor.  “As  if  any  one  would  have  the  courage  to 
rise  up  in  this  respectable  crowd  and  proclaim  himself  in  need  of  a 
pledge.” 

“You  doubting  Thomas!”  replied  her  companion,  and  even  as  she 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


19Y 


i spoke,  a young  man  arose  and  walked  up  to  the  table,  his  face  white, 
! his  hands  trembling  with  excitement.  Nettie  hesitated  a moment,  then 
I arose  and  followed  him,  and  together  they  signed  the  pledge  that  meant 
r so  much  to  them  both.  Others  followed,  but  in  all  the  large  congregation 
i there  was  probably  not  another  one  who  needed  the  protection  of  the 
! pledge  more  than  Harry  Brayton. 

“I  want  to  thank  you  for  this  service,  and  for  what  it  has  done  for 
my  dear  brother,”  said  Nettie,  her  eyes  moist,  her  voice  trembling  with 
deep  feeling,  as  she  addressed  Mrs.  Hicks.  A member  of  the  Young 
Men’s  Bible  class  had  captured  Harry  for  the  Sunday  School  hour,  and 
the  two  were  standing  alone  together.  “He  is  alone  in  the  city,  and  he 
I — needed  it  so.  May  I ask  if  you  will  mother  him  a little,  you  tem- 

I perance  ladies?  He  is  not  bad — only  away  from  home  and ” her 

1 voice  failed  altogether. 

“Indeed  we  will,  dear  girl.  Take  heart,  my  child,  for  there  must  be 
i 'much  of  good  in  your  brother,  else  he  would  not  have  taken  the  public 
stand  he  did.” 

; They  gathered  around  her,  the  white  ribbon  mothers  and  sisters, 
with  kindly  words  of  cheer  and  hopefulness,  and  Nettie’s  heart  was 
lighter  than  it  had  been  for  weeks,  as  she  listened.  The  pastor  was  at 
; the  entrance  as  the  congregation  passed  out,  and  the  man  with  the  little 
boy  lingered  for  a word,  as  the  minister  pressed  his  hand. 

1 “Thank  you  for  the  sermon,  sir,”  he  said.  “You  have  put  an  old 
subject  before  me  in  a new  light.  I should  like  to  call  upon  you  when 
j you  are  at  liberty.” 

[ It  was  a touching  story  the  pastor  heard  the  following  evening  in 
^ the  quiet  of  his  study.  Of  aspirations  unrealized,  and  hopes  deferred. 

“I  was  never  taught  to  see  the  wickedness  of  it  whem  I was  a boy,”  he 
1 said  humbly,  “and  when  I was  offered  a fine  paying  position  with  easy 
i work  under  such  circumstances,  can  you  wonder  that  I accepted  it?” 
i “No,  no,  sir.  Some  of  us  who  are  better  trained  might  not  have 
I done  any  better,”  replied  the  pastor,  with  ready  sympathy,  “but  now 
that  you  see  the  evil,  what  will  you  do?” 

“The  Lord  knows,  sir,  I don’t,”  shaking  his  head  disconsolately. 
“The  expert  mixer  of  drinks  has  been  my  trade  for  years  I know  no 
other  — I never  touch  the  stuff  myself,  so  I have  not  the  appetite  to 
overcome,  but  what  can  I do?” 

“You  are  strong  and  capable,”  the  pastor  looked  at  his  caller  with 


198  STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


admiration.  “Why,  man,  if  I had  your  splendid  physique,  I should  feel 
able  to  conquer  the  world.” 

“It  takes  more  than  ph3^sique  to  keep  soul  and  body  together,  sir. 
I have  two  little  boys  and  a wife  depending  on  me  for  support,  and  it 
is  a question  of  dollars  and  cents  as  well  as  of  principle.” 

“You  are  right,  quite  right,  and  I will  stir  myself  at  once  and  see 
what  I can  do  to  help.” 

“Any  honest  work,  no  matter  how  hard,  that  I can  earn  a living 
at,”  said  the  man  with  wistful  gratitude,  and  then  the  pastor  touched 
the  deeper  -strings  of  his  heart  with  tender,  reverent  hand,  and  found 
them  strangely  responsive. 

***** 

Mrs.  Cummings  paid  over  two  glittering  ten-dollar  gold  pieces, 
fresh  from  the  mint,  as  a special  compliment  to  the  occasion,  and  did 
so  gladly  and  willingly.  “I  wish  it  might  have  been  more,”  she  said 
earnestly,  “for  what  are  dollars  compared  with  such  splendid  results  as 
these?” 

“And  on  the  other  hand,  it  takes  dollars  to  bring  results,  and  I can 
see  where  every  penny  of  this  can  be  used  to  the  very  best  advantage,” 
replied  Mrs.  Hicks,  as  she  passed  the  money  over  to  the  smiling 
treasurer. — Mrs.  F.  M.  Howard  in  Union  Signal. 

TIMMY  FLANNIGAN  AND  HIS  PROMOTION. 

About  twenty  years  ago  this  experience  came  into  my  life,  when 
I was  a teacher  in  a primary  school  in  IMaine.  My  brother  was  school 
superintendent  at  the  time,  and  of  course,  as  he  visited  the  different 
schools,  he  saw  many  bright,  wide-awake  bo}"S.  But  Timmy  Flannigan, 
a boy  about  nine  years  of  age,  attracted  him  especial!}’.  No  matter 
what  the  question,  Timmy  knew  what  to  reply;  no  matter  how  long  the 
column  of  figures,  Timmy  was  always  the  first  to  give  the  right  answer. 
This  was  rather  discouraging  to  the  other  scholars,  so  one  day  Mr.  C., 
the  superintendent,  said ; 

“Now,  Timmy,  you  keep  still  awhile.  I can’t  find  out  how  much 
the  other  boys  and  girls  know,  if  you  answer  all  the  questions.” 

Tim  obeyed,  but  it  was  hard  work,  and  his  eyes  fairly  danced  with 
excitement  and  impatience. 

At  last  came  the  end  of  the  school  year.  When  the  examinations 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


199 


were  over,  Timmy  Flannigan’s  name  was  the  first  on  the  list  of  those 
promoted  to  the  niext  higher  grade.  A dainty  diploma  for  each  scholar 
had  been  prepared  by  the  teacher,  and  when  Mr.  C.  passed  Timmy’s  to 
him,  his  “I  thank  you”  was  heard  throughout  the  large  school-room,  he 
felt  so  proud  and  happy. 

As  Mr.  C.  was  returning  to  his  home  that  day,  he  met  Mr.  Flan- 
nigan,  Tim’s  father,  a hard-working  man,  employed  at  good  wages  in 
one  of  the  large  cotton  mills.  Though  naturally  a warm-hearted  man, 
Mr.  C.  knew  that  he  loved  liquor  better  than  anything  else  in  the 
world,  and  most  of  his  earnings  found  their  way  to  the  saloon-keeper’s 
pocket.  So,  in  the  faint  hope  of  arousing  him  to  some  sense  of  his  duty 
towards  his  family,  he  stopped  to  speak  to  him. 

“Mr.  Flannigan,  do  you  know  you  have  one  of  the  brightest  and 
most  promising  boys  in  town?  You  must  do  well  by  him,  keep  him  at 
school,  give  him  every  possible  chance  for  an  education,  and  in  years 
to  come  he  will  repay  it  all.” 

“Indeed,  now,  but  I mean  to  do  that  same  thing,  Mr.  C.  I am  going 
to  have  that  boy  graduate  at  Bowdoin  College,  sure  as  I live.  He  shall 
have  a better  education  than  his  poor,  old  father  had.  Thank  you  for 
your  good  words  about  him,  sir. 

Saying  this,  he  turned  the  next  corner  and  went  into  the  first  saloon. 

Four  hours  later,  Timmy  was  working  at  home,  helping  to- care  for 
the  little  Flannigans,  of  whom  there  were  five  besides  himself,  when  he 
suddenly  heard  footsteps  stumbling  up  the  stairs.  His  mother  called  out 
to  him  in  anxious  tones  which  he  knew  only  too  well : 

“O  Tim,  your  father’s  bad  again ! Keep  out  of  his  way,  for  when 
he  is  like  this,  there’s  no  knowing  what  he  will  do.” 

Trembling  with  fear,  Tim  hastened  to  escape,  but  the  motherly 
warning  had  come  too  late.  Even  as  she  spoke,  Mr.  Flannigan  had 
caught  sight  of  the  boy  at  the  head  of  the  stairs,  and,  imagining  in  his 
drunkenness,  that  he  was  in  his  way,  he  lifted  his  heavy  boot,  gave  one 
kick,  and  dear,  bright,  helpless  little  Timmy  lay  a crippled  mass  upon 
the  flopr  below. 

His  mother  gave  one  terrified  scream  and  fainted;  the  father  stag- 
gered stupidly  along  into  the  bedroom,  where  he  fell  in  a drunken  sleep 
upon  the  floor.  Kind  neighbors  gathered  in  haste,  lifted  the  poor  lad 
in  their  arms,  and  carried  him  to  his  bed.  The  doctors  soon  arrived. 


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STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


“Concussion  of  the  brain,”  was  all  they  said ; then  they  went  carefully 
to  work  to  see  what  could  be  done  for  the  little  sufiferer. 

While  they  were  setting  the  broken  arm  and  leg,  attending  to  the 
scalp  wound,  and  binding  up  the  little  hand  upon  which  two  fingers 
were  broken,  the  father,  who  had  promised  to  do  so  much  for  his  boy, 
was  sleeping  a drunken  sleep,  unconscious  of  the  terrible  crime  he  had 
committed.  Many  reproaches  were  hurled  at  the  senseless  form,  but 
nothing  could  be  done  to  avert  the  consequences  of  the  act. 

Weeks  passed,  and  Timmy  was  at  last  able  to  get  about  the  town  on 
crutches.  But  it  was  not  the  same  Timmy  who  had  received  his 
diploma  with  such  joy  only  a few  short  weeks  before.  All  the  bright- 
ness was  gone  from  his  face.  That  cruel  kick  had  stolen  his  brain. 

The  fall  term  had  commenced,  and  one  morning,  as  I sat  in  my 
school-room,  I heard  the  sound  of  crutches  in  the  entry.  I went  to  the 
door,  and  there  stood  Timmy.  In  response  to  my  smile,  he  muttered. 
“Tim  — school  — boys  — Tim.”  “Yes,”  I said,  “we  all  want  you,  Tim; 
come  in.”  He  shambled  in  as  best  he  could,  fell  in  a chair,  and  gazed 
vacantly  about.  I went  on  with  the  lesson  as  usual,  but  it  was  all  a 
mystery  to  poor  little  Tim.  When  he  tried  to  talk,  the  result  was  only 
a few  disconnected  words ; it  was  impossible  for  him  to  frame  a sentence. 

Day  after  day  he  visited  my  school,  making  no  trouble  in  any  way, 
but  you  can  imagine  what  a temperance  lesson,  what  a lesson  of  love, 
of  kindly  S3'mpathy,  of  continued  thoughtfulness  and  generosity,  his 
daily  visits  were!  There  was  an  object  lesson,  indeed!  The  scholars 
vied  with  each  other  in  doing  for  him  — a pair  of  shoes  one  day,  a 
pretty  necktie  the  next,  and  toys,  fruit  and  flowers  in  abundance.  I 
could  tell  you  of  many  sacrifices  made  by  these  little  children  for  poor, 
helpless  Tim. 

At  last  we  missed  his  accustomed  visits,  and  upon  inquiry-  I found 
he  was  sick  with  typhoid  fever,  from  which  his  mother  had  just  died. 
The  other  members  of  the  family  were  being  cared  for  by  strangers,  the 
wretched  father  was  in  jail,  and  there  was  no  place  for  Timmj-  but  the 
town  farm.  He  was  tenderly  cared  for  there.  ]\I)r  little  scholars  kept 
him  supplied  with  fruit  and  flowers,  and  whenever  they  went  to  see 
him,  he  would  say,  “Tim  — boys  — Tim.”  " 

As  the  weeks  passed,  he  grew  weaker  and  weaker.  One  da)--  an  old 
woman  who  had  lived  at  the  farm  many  years,  was  holding  him  in  her 
arms  and  crooning  to  him  in  a quavering  voice: 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


201 


“Gentle  Jesus,  meek  and  mild, 

Look  upon  a little  child.” 

Those  who  stood  near,  said  a look  almost  of  intelligence  passed  over 
his  face.  He  smiled ; he  was  not  suffering,  and  if  he  were  thinking,  his 
thoughts  were  happy;  no  clouds  obscured  his  vision  of  the  heavenly 
home.  I think  he  had  a glimpse , into  the  “Home  Beautiful,”  where 
cruelty  and  bitter  wrongs  are  not  known,  and  where  his  plaintive  cry 
of  “Tim  — boys  — Tim”  was  answered  by  the  group  of  boys  who  had 
gone  on  before  him. 

Poor  little  Timmy.  His  time  of  rejoicing  had  come,  for  he  had  a 
glorious  promotion, 

“Unto  that  school. 

Where  he  no  longer  needs  our  protection. 

And  Christ  Himself  doth  rule.” 

— By  Margaret  Arnold,  in  Zion’s  Herald. 

REBELLION  OF  “FRONT  NO.  3.” 

The  big  hotel  swarmed  with  guests,  and  Front  No.  3 certainly  had 
enough  to  keep  him  busy.  At  least,  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  the  clerk’s  bell 
was  never  quiet.  People  were  continually  coming  and  going,  thronging 
the  corridors,  and  keeping  everybody  connected  with  the  house  running 
and  hurrying  about  with  trunks,  valises,  bags,  messages  and  errands  of 
all  sorts.  Front  No.  3 had  his  share.  He  was  the  new  bell  boy,  but  he 
promised  to  be  of  the  right  sort,  as  he  proved  to  be  alert  and  quick  to 
learn. 

Senator  Robinson,  the  idol  of  the  district,  was  coming  to  town,  and 
he  was  booked  for  a banquet  and  a speech-making  in  Parlor  A that 
very  night,  and  everybody  from  far  and  near  had  been  invited  to  attend 
and  meet  the  great  man.  It  seemed  as  if  the  big  register  would  not 
hold  all  the  names  of  those  w'^ho  made  application  for  rooms.  When 
the  clerk  began  reluctantly  turning  people  away.  Front  No.  3 knew  that 
the  only  vacant  rooms  left  in  the  hotel  were  those  that  had  been  reserved 
for  the  occupancy  of  the  Senator  and  his  friends. 

The  morning  had  almost  passed,  when  a cheer  went  up  from  the 
crowd  that  had  gathered  outside  the  doors,  and  when  a large,  genial- 
faced man  entered,  everybody  at  once  became  aware  that  the  Senator 
had  arrived.  The  new  boy  did  not  stare,  much  as  he  would  like  to,  but 


202 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


ran  to  his  side  in  an  instant  to  take  charge  of  the  hand  luggage,  a 
privilege  that  the  other  fellows  would  almost  have  fought  for,  had  they 
not  happened  to  be  in  various  parts  of  the  hotel  on  as  many  errands  at 
the  time. 

“Show  the  Senator  his  rooms.  Front,”  was  the  word. 

The  boy  obeyed  with  alacrity,  and  the  elevator  man  performed  his 
little  part  with  all  due  dignity.  Showing  every  required  courtesy  and 
service.  Front  No.  3 safely  bestowed  the  distinguished  guest  in  his 
room  and  was  backing  in  the  direction  of  the  door,  when  the  Senator 
stopped  him.  “Boy,  bring  up  a bottle  of  whiskey,  some  water  and 
glasses.” 

The  shoulders  of  Front  No.  3 straightened  almost  imperceptibly  and 
his  eyes  grew  suddenly  tense.  He  had  not  planned  for  anything  quite 
like  this.  He  had  thought  the  waiters  would  be  called  upon  for  any- 
thing  of  that  sort.  But  here  was  a guest,  a great  man  in  the  eyes  of  the 
people  of  the  district  and  state,  asking  a temperance  boy  for  whiskey, 
and  poor  little  Front  No.  3 was  stunned  a little  and  started  to  hesitate. 

The  Senator  noticed  the  momentary  silence,  and  glancing  up  from  a 
letter  he  held  in  his  hand,  said  a bit  impatiently: 

“Well,  that’s  all.” 

The  bell  boy  found  his  voice,  and  “dared  to  be  a Daniel”  yet  again. 

“Fm  sorry,  sir.” 

“Well,  sorry  for  what?  What’s  the  matter  — no  whiskey  in  the 
house?  Or,  what’s  the  trouble.  Out  with  it.” 

Few  boys  could  prevent  themselves  from  trembling  in  their  shoes 
with  a difficulty  of  this  sort  presented  and  in  such  a presence.  Front 
No.  3 trembled  and  looked  sadly  confused,  but  he  managed  to  lift  his 
eyes  as  he  bravely  said: 

“The  trouble  is,  sir,  Fve  made  a promise,  and  I can’t  break  it  if  I 
lose  my  place  — no,  not  for  the  President  of  the  United  States.” 

It  was  the  Senator’s  turn  to  be  somewhat  astounded  now,  though  he 
laid  aside  his  letter  and  gazed  at  the  boy  with  more  curiosity  than  dis- 
pleasure in  his  face. 

“Why,  boy,  what  do  you  mean?  What  are  you  here  for  in  this 
hotel?  Have  you  been  here  long?  I ought  to  be  angry  with  you  and 
send  a complaint  to  the  office.  But  — well  there,  I am  accustomed  to 
have  folks  speak  up  when  they  have  a grievance.  I'm  waiting.  ’ 

“I  confess  I am  a new  boy,  sir,  and  I never  expected  to  be  called 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


203 


upon  to  order  intoxicating  liquors  or  I never  should  have  tried  for-  the 
place.  But  I suppose  it’s  all  up  with  me  now.  I can’t  take  your  order 
downstairs,  sir.” 

“Tell  me  why,”  temporized  the  Senator,  with  something  like  amus<e- 
ment  on  his  face. 

Front  No.  3 almost  broke  down  at  this  question,  but  he  answered 
half  sobbingly: 

“My  father  died  in  delirium  tremens,  and  I have  a brother  in  prison 
for  drinking  and  gambling,  so  that  I am  doing  my  best  to  help  support 
my  mother.  I go  to  Sunday  school,  where  I have  made  a promise  never 
to  touch,  taste  nor  handle  strong  drink  of  any  sort.” 

“Well,  I don’t  believe  you  ever  will,  my  boy,”  replied  the  Senator, 
encouragingly,  “if  you  always  exhibit  the  sort  of  courage  you  are  show- 
ing now.  It  is  unusual,  and  to  be  honest  with  you,  I haven’t  anything 
like  animosity  toward  you  for  making  such  a manly  stand.  I’m  always 
glad  to  meet  such  a boy,  but  I certainly  never  expected  to  meet  one  here. 
Someone  ought  to  have  told  you  that  you  would  be  called  upon  to  order 
drinks  for  guests,  because  most  people  would  not  be  likely  to  take  your 
refusal  so  easil}''.  Still,  I am  always  willing  to  learn  from  anyone,  and 
by  the  way,  you  have  suddenly  reminded  me  of  something  that  I had 
nearly  forgotten.  I do  not  drink  myself,  but  when  my  friends  call,  they 
generally  expect  liquor  of  some  sort.  They  must  do  without  it  to-day. 
So,  if  you  will  just  order  some  water  and  glasses,  you  may  consider 
yourself  the  winner.” 

To  say  that  the  “winner”  was  overcome,  would  be  putting  it  rather 
mildly.  He  ejaculated,  “Oh,  thank  you.  Senator  Robinson,”  and  was 
moving  away,  when' 

“Hold  on,”  called  the  Senator.  “You  won’t  he  able  to  stay  here,  you 
know,  with  the  principles  you  hold.  I know  where  just  such  a bov  as 
yourself  is  badly  needed.  Give  me  your  address  and  I’ll  not  forget.” 

When  the  little  rebel  who  had  won  so  startling  a victory  went  to  the 
office  and  surrendered  his  position,  it  was  only  to  accept,  later  on,  an 
enviable  position  of  trust  in  a hospital  of  the  Senator’s  own  founding. 
The  Senator  looked  out  for  him,  and  Front  No.  3 is  a temperance 
physician  and  surgeon  to-day,  owing  to  his  success  to  his  not  forgetting 
his  pledge  under  any  circumstances  whatever. — Frank  Walcott  Hutt'in 
Youth’s  Temperance  Banner. 


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STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


HIS  OWN  WAY. 

“You’re  too  strict  and  particular  about  trifles,  mother.  To  be  a 
broad-minded,  whole-souled  man,  a fellow  must  be  blind  to  a lot  of 
things  his  conscience  doesn’t  exactly  approve.” 

“You  are  mistaken,  my  boy.  There  is  never  a call,  for  a true  man 
to  do  anything  of  which  he  would  be  ashamed  in  any  company.  And 
there’s  never  a need  to  follow  a bad  example,  because  it  is  popular.” 

“You’ve  never  rubbed  up  against  the  world,  mother,  and  don’t  know 
what’s  necessary  to  success.  But  I’ll  promise  you  to  keep  on  the  right 
track,  and  never  be  guilty  of  one  dishonorable  act.  Good-bye,  dear 
mother.” 

“Good-bye ! God  bless  you,  dear  Ben !” 

Ben  Howard’s  eyes  were  dim  with  unshed  tears,  but  in  his  heart  of 
hearts  there  was  a wild  throb  of  joy  at  the  thought  that  he  was  to  enter 
into  unlimited  freedom.  The  restraining  hand  of  a “puritanical”  old 
mother  had  grown  irksome,  and  he  longed  for  the  privilege  of  exercising 
his  own  ideas  of  living. 

He  would  doubtless  miss  his  mother,  sister  and  younger  brother,  at 
first,  but  this  offer  from  a well-known  lawyer  in  the  Northwest  was  the 
chance  of  a lifetime,  and  not  to  be  declined  because  of  the  distance  from 
his  boyhood’s  home.  With  only  his  education  and  his  law  diploma  as 
capital,  a full  partnership  with  his  father’s  former  partner  seemed  a 
Providential  provision. 

The  town  of  Hoffman,  in  which  Ben  located  was  a new  country 
seat,  situated  near  a miming  district,  and  was  fast  filling  up  with  a varied 
population.  Five  thriving  saloons  were  among  the  town’s  leading  enter- 
prises. It  was  in  reference  to  these,  that  Mrs.  Howard  had  so  earnestly 
cautioned  her  son. 

For  several  months,  Ben  was  subjected  to  no  temptation  to  enter  a 
saloon,  but  at  his  partner’s  suggestion  the  firm  began  to  deal  in  real 
estate.  In  a short  time  it  seemed  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world 
for  a deal  in  lots  to  be  closed  by  an  all-round  treat.  Gradually  the  habit 
developed  until  Ben  began  to  regard  with  contempt  his  former  ideas  as 
to  prohibition. 

The  young  lawyer  met  with  phenomenal  success  in  all  he  undertook, 
and  was  as  popular  as  a new  dollar.  No  one  was  surprised  when  he  fell 
in  love  with  the  prettiest  and  most  accomplished  girl,  in  the  town,  and 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


205 


married  her  in  the  face  of  a dozen  rivals.  Ben  returned  to  his  old  home 
in  Tennessee  on  a bridal  trip,  and  his  charming  wife  won  all  hearts. 

“It  will  do  your  heart  good  to  know  how  Ben  stands  ini  Hoffman,” 
the  happy  bride  confided  to  the  old  mother.  “He  is  the  most  popular 
man  in  the  country,  and  many  consider  him  the  most  brilliant.  Every- 
body has  unbounded  confidence  in  his  honor  and  integrity,  although, 
being  a lawyer,  and  a real  estate  man,  he  has  many  temptations.” 

“It  is  certainly  gratifying  to  hear  that,  dear,”  replied  the  mother. 
“But  does  Ben  make  a stand  against  the  saloon?” 

“Why,  no,  he  doesn’t  object  particularly  to  the  saloons,  but  no  one 
ever  heard  of  him  being  drunk.  Ben  is  too  broad-minded  to  join  the 
prohibitionists.” 

“The  saloons  are  essential  to  the  growth  of  the  town,  mother,”  as- 
serted Ben,  who  had  entered  and  heard  the  last  remark.  “It’s  human 
nature  for  a man  to  want  what  he  is  forbidden  to  have,  and  as  men  must 
have  liquor  the  saloon  is  preferable  to  the  blind  tiger,  — such  as  you 
have  here.” 

“There’s  no  need  of  either,  son.” 

“Mother’s  out  of  date  in  her  notions,”  Ben  continued  after  his 
mother  had  left  the  room.  “She  would  be  shocked  at  the  idea  of  ‘setting 
up’  a crowd.  But  a man  must  keep  on  a broad  road,  if  he  would  get  on 
in  the  world.” 

A year  later,  Ben  Howard  became  a candidate  for  district  attorney. 
There  were  several  competitors  for  the  office  and  the  race  was  uncertain. 
The  saloon  played  an  important  part  in  the  campaign,  as  the  candidate 
who  tendered  the  most  drinks  secured  the  majority  of  voters.  Ben  was 
elected,  but  spent  the  savings  of  two  years-  to  win  the  so-called  victory. 

“You  must  keep  your  hold  on  the  masses,  Howard,”  Ben’s  partner 
had  advised  after  the  election,  for  we  will  need  you  as  our  next  state 
senator.” 

And  so  Ben  found  excuse  for  continuing  to  “treat”  and  be  “treated,” 
long  after  the  political  contest  had  been  decided. 

The  following  spring  a new  citizen  took  up  his  abode  in  the  Howard 
home.  It  was  Ben,  Jr.,  as  handsome  a specimen  of  babyhood  as  one 
could  wish.  The  proud  father  wrote  his  mother  glowing  descriptions 
of  his  boy’s  beauty,  and  winning  ways,  long  before  anyone  else  noticed 
his  good  looks. 

His  first  born ! How  Ben  gloated  over  his  treasure ! The  instincts 


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STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


of  fatherhood  stirred  in  his  heart,  and  filled  it  with  longings  and  aspira- 
tions for  living  upon  a higher  plane.  This  boy  should  be  his  other,  more 
perfect  self. 

In  the  autumn,  Mrs.  Howard,  the  most  adoring  of  grandmothers, 
came  on  a visit  to  her  son.  It  was  her  experienced  eye  that  first  noticed 
little  Ben’s  failure  to  be  interested  in  moving  objects  and  colors.  At  her 
suggestion  a physician  was  called  to  examine  the  beautiful,  limpid  blue 
eyes,  and  he  discovered  that  the  child  was  totally  blind ! There  was  sor- 
row and  bitter  disappointment  in  the  home,  but  the  doctor  held  out  the 
hope  that  when  the  child  was  eight  or  ten  years  old,  he  might  undergo 
an  operation  which  would  give  him  sight. 

With  the  coming  and  going  of  the  years  other  children  came  into 
the  home,  but  little  Ben  remained  a constant  care  and  source  of  anxiet}'. 
There  seemed  to  be  a mental  deficiency  also,  which  time  and  medical 
treatment  failed  to  remedy. 

At  last  the  time  came  when  the  physician  advised  the  parents  to 
take  the  boy  to  a specialist  on  brain  diseases.  Half  way  across  the  conti- 
nent they  journeyed  with  their  afflicted  child. 

The  great  man  made  the  examination'  in  silence.  At  its  conclusion 
he  shook  his  head. 

“Any  hope  from  an  operation.  Doctor?”  asked  the  anxious  father. 

“None  whatever  for  either  sight  or  mind.” 

“What  could  have  been  the  cause?” 

“Do  you  want  my  candid  opinion?” 

“Yes.” 

“What  was  your  mental  and  physical  condition  the  year  previous  to 
this  child’s  birth?” 

Howard  was  silent. 

“Wasn’t  your  mind  clouded  by  drugs  or  intoxicants,  and  wasn’t  the 
child’s  mother  worried  and  troubled,  because  of  your  habit?” 

“And  the  child  must  bear  the  sin  of  the  father!”  groaned  the  man 
who  had  had  his  own  way. — Jennie  N.  Standifer  in  Union  Signal. 

THE  SALOON  KEEPER’S  DAUGHTER. 

Poor  Lucy  Daw ! It  seemed  as  though  she  had  no  friends ; nobody 
seemed  to  care  what  became  of  her.  She  felt  even  more  friendless  since 
her  mother  died  just  one  year  ago.  She  realized  after  one  year  of  hard 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


207 


suflfering,  that  in  losing  her  mother  she  had  lost  her  best  and  truest 
friend,  and  as  it  seemed  to  her  now,  her  only  friend ; that  is,  with  the 
exception  of  her  father.  Jack  Daw,  a saloon  keeper,  a whole-souled,  good 
sort  of  fellow,  who  gave  her  most  everything  her  heart  could  desire.  He 
did  a fine  business  and  Lucy  could  not  understand  why  the  girls  snubbed 
her  as  they  did,  as  she  led  in  all  her  classes  and  conducted  herself  always 
as  a lady.  But  one  day  during  recess  she  overheard  a group  of  girls 
talking. 

“Girls,  I think  it  is  a downright  shame  that  out  of  all  of  the  good 
speakers  in  our  literary  society  Lucy  Daw  was  chosen  to  represent  us 
in  the  inter-society  contest. 

“Why,  yes !”  agreed  Lucile  Preston.  “She’s  a saloonkeeper’s 
daughter.” 

“Of  course  she  is.  Everybody  knows  she’s  old  Jack  Daw’s  daughter. 
His  very  likeness  is  stamped  right  in  her  face,”  and  Mabel  Lewis  gave 
utterance  to  a sigh  of  disgust. 

“I,  for  one,”  continued  Lucile,  “do  not  mean  to  be  present  when  she 
speaks.  A saloonkeeper’s  daughter  to — ” Lucy  could  hear  no  more 
as  the  big  bell  sounded  and  recess  was  over. 

The  girls  all  fell  into  line  and  were  soon  in  the  chapel  pursuing  their 
studies  as  usual.  The  conversation  that  Lucy  had  heard  hurt  her  gentle 
nature  very  much.  She  now  knew  why  all  the  girls  avoided  her  as  they 
did.  She  had  thought  more  than  once  that  she  would  go  to  the  girls  and 
ask  them  to  excuse  her ; but  then  she  reflected  what  a great  honor  it  was, 
as  she  was  to  be  the  contestant  of  Zetalethian  against  the  other  four  socie- 
ties, and  she  was  anxious  not  only  to  speak,  but  even  more  anxious  to 
win  for  her  “daddy’s”  sake.  Her  father  had  already  said : “Lucy,  my 
dear,  this  speaks  well  for  you,  and  daddy  is  proud  of  his  daughter.” 

Lucy  worked  hard  in  trying  to  decide  on  a subject.  She  had  already 
chosen  several,  but  there  were  some  objections  to  each  of  them. 

The  girls,  it  seemed,  snubbed  her  all  the  more  this  time,  more 
through  jealousy,  perhaps,  than  anything  else,  but  it  hurt  Lucy  very 
much. 

“And  to  think,  the  cause  of  all  my  misery  is  that  daddy  is  a saloon- 
keeper !” 

A saloonkeeper ! She  had  often  wondered  why  such  a good  man  had 
chosen  this  occupation.  Her  father  loved  her  devotedly  and  granted  her 


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STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


every  wish.  They  had  a suite  of  rooms  over  his  saloon  and  she  kept 
house  for  him. 

Jack  Daw  was  what  might  be  appropriately  called  a diamond  in  the 
rough.  While  he  loved  Lucy  and  gratified  all  her  wishes,  yet  to  the  out- 
side world  he  was  a rough,  hearty,  go-lucky  sort  of  fellow,  who  didn’t 
seem  to  care  for,  of  to  take  any  interest  in,  serious  subjects  or  the  church. 

“Just  so  I make  a good  living  and  keep  things  going,  what  else  is 
needed,  my  dear  child?”  he  would  say. 

“I  know,  daddy;  but  there  is  the  other  world,”  she  would  answer, 
“the  hereafter.  We  should  think  of  that  — and  I tell  you  it  is  certainly 
worth  thinking  about,  too.” 

One  night,  about  two  weeks  after  this  conversation,  Lucy  was  busy 
on  her  composition  while  her  father  was  reading  the  daily  paper.  After 
a while  he  spoke:  “Lucy,  have  you  selected  your  subject  for  commence- 
ment?” 

“Yes,  daddy,  and  a very  difficult  one,  too;  one  that  I cannot  manage 
alone,  I am  afraid,  and  so  I want  to  ask  your  help.  I am  sure  you  wdll 
be  willing  to  aid  me,”  and  she  arose  and,  seating  herself  on  the  arm  of 
her  father’s  chair,  placed  her  arm  around  his  neck,  and  gazed  into  his 
brown  eyes. 

“I  will  certainly  do  all  in  my  power  to  help  you  win,  my  dear,”  he 
said.  “But  what  is  your  subject?” 

“The  subject  is  an  interesting  one,”  replied  Lucy.  “I  have  chosen 
‘The  Evils  and  Sins  in  a Saloon.’  ” 

Her  father  looked  bewildered.  What  had  tempted  his  daughter  to 
discuss  such  a subject? 

“But,  my  child,  what  do  you — ” 

Lucy  interrupted:  “Yes,  there  is  evil,  much  evil,  in  even  you,  my  dear, 
good,  and  kind  daddy.  If  there  were  not,  you  would  not  stay  in  this 
business  which  wrecks  other  lives.  And,  O,  you  didn’t  realize  when  Jim 
Landers  spent  his  last  cent  for  whisky  in  your  saloon  Saturday  night  that 
he  was  giving  up  the  small  sum  of  money  that  should  have  been  used  to 
supply  food  and  clothes  for  his  family,  and  that  he  went  straight  home 
and  cursed  and  abused  his  poor  wife  and  children,  besides  letting  them 
almost  starve.  I am  sure  you  couldn’t  look  at  it  in  this  light,  or  you,  my 
dear,  good  daddy,  would  close  down  your  saloon  and  turn  to  God.  The 
Bible  says':  ‘No  man  can  serve  two  masters:  for  either  he  will  hate  the 
one,  and  love  the  other;  or  else  he  will  hold  to  the  one,  and  despise  the 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


209 


other.  Ye  cannot  serve  God  and  mammon.’  Just  so  in  the  saloon  busi- 
ness. You  cannot  continue  in  this  business  of  ruining  other  lives  and 
serve  God.  No,  daddy,  you  must  give  up  one  or  the  other.  And  for  my 
sake,  who  loves  you  better  than  all  the  world,  won’t  you  give  up  the 
saloon?  O,  I know  it’s  no  easy  thing  to  do  — especially  when  one  has 
the  business  you  have.  Do  not  sell  out  to  others.  Think  of  their  souls ! 
Just  simply  close  the  door  and  trust  to  God  for  the  rest.  He  is  just  and 
will  not  let  us  suffer.  I can  get  employment,  and  I am  sure  a man  of 
your  ability  would  have  no  trouble  in  finding  a position  of  some  kind. 
You  did  not  know  that  I am  being  snubbed  by  everyone,  not  for  any 
fault  of  my  own,  but  all  because  my  father  is  a saloonkeeper.  I heard 
the  girls  talking  at  recess  not  long  since,  and  one  of  them  said  she 
thought  it  a downright  shame  that  the  judges  have  chosen  me,  a saloon- 
keeper’s daughter,  to  represent  our  society  on  commencement  day.  And, 
daddy,  those  cruel  words  hurt  me  very  much  when  I first  heard  them, 
.and  I could  hardly  resist  going  over  to  them  and  resenting  their  speech, 
but  what  I heard  set  me  to  thinking.  I never  before  fully  realized 
what  a misfortune  it  was  to  be  a saloonkeeper’s  daughter ; but  now,  like 
them,  I feel  that  our  society  should  not  be  represented  by  one  occupying 
such  a position.  So,  my  dear,  good  daddy  will  have  to  help  me  carry  out 
my  good  resolution.  Please  don’t  say  you  can’t.  It  is  hard  for  me  to 
be  treated  so,  and  to  be  made  unhappy,  just  because  I am  the  child  of  a 
man  who  sells  drink.  I cannot  tell  you  how  much  I suffer,  and  I know 
you  do  not  want  me  to  be  so  troubled.” 

All  the  while  her  father  listened  with  averted  eyes.  As  she  finished 
a tear  shone  on  his  cheek,  and  he  put  his  arm  around  the  pleading  girl. 
To  see  his  Lucy,  who  was  the  one  object  of  his  life,  in  trouble  was  too 
much  for  him. 

“My  dear  Lucy,”  he  said,  “you  have  indeed  put  your  old  daddy  to 
thinking.  I will  consider  your  proposition,  especially  as  it  will  help  you 
to  win  this  honor,  and ” 

“Daddy,  it  is  not  this  honor  that  is  most  in  my  heart.  It  is  your  and 
my  life’s  happiness,  not  only  in  this  world,  but  the  world  that  is  to  come. 
If  you  want  to  meet  mother,  as  you  promised  her  on  her  deathbed,  you 
will  have  to  give  up  this  business. 

As  she  ceased  speaking  they  heard  a low  groan,  as  if  from  someone 
in  misery.  They  looked  out  of  the  window  only  to  see  the  form  of  a 
drunken  man  who  had  fallen  in  the  gutter  right  in  front  of  his  saloon. 


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STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


The  man  proved  to  be  no  one  else  than  Jim  Landers.  It  was  plain  to  see 
that  the  poor  soul  was  in  real  agony,  and  his  face  told  of  much  pain. 

“Daddy,  we  must  not  let  him  stay  there.  We  must  get  him  up  to 
bed.  The  poor  fellow  is  certainly  full  of  that  miserable  rum.” 

They,  with  much  effort,  succeeded  in  getting  him  up  and  laying  him 
across  the  bed,  where  he  remained  all  night  in  a drunken  stupor. 

That  night  was  a very  restless  one  indeed  for  Jack  Daw.  What 
Lucy  had  said  to  him  had  not  been  lost.  He  could  see  Juliet  Landers,  a 
frail,  delicate  little  woman,  worn  by  ill-treatment  and  hard  work,  and  a 
group  of  hungry  children  around  her  crying  out  for  food,  and  her  cup- 
board totally  bare.  And  it  came  to  him  that  he  was  responsible  for  this 
horrible  condition  of  affairs.  Then  the  picture  of  his  wife  on  her  dying 
bed  seemed  to  present  itself  only  to  make  him  more  miserable,  for  with 
bitter  remorse  he  remembered  his  promise  to  her.  It  was  indeed  a night 
of  hard  struggle  and  battle,  but  one  that  at  the  break  of  dawn  resulted  in 
one  of  the  grandest  of  all  victories.  The  Jack  Daw  that  retired  that  night 
was  by  no  means'  the  same  Jack  Daw  that  arose  the  next  morning,  and, 
with  that  victory  came  that  new  life  that  was  to  mean  so  much  to  Lucy 
and  him  in  years  to  come. 

Imagine  Lucy’s  delight  and  surprise  when  at  the  breakfast  table  he 
announced  his  intention  of  closing  his  saloon  that  very  day.  Lucy  was 
overcome  by  his  words  and  going  to  him,  laid  her  head  on  his  shoulder 
and  shed  tears  of  happiness. 

“Daddy,  it’s  so  like  you.  I know  what  a sacrifice  it  is  for  you.  I 
know  better  than  anyone  what  a sacrifice  it  will  be  to  us  both ; but 
then,  daddy,  I don’t  mind.”  And  her  tears  flowed  all  the  more. 

“There,  do  not  cry,”  said  the  father,  tenderly.  I am  doing  all  this 
for  my  Lucy  and  I wish  to  God  that  I could  do  more,”  and  he  kissed 
Lucy  affectionately. 

“Daddy,  you  can  do  more,  one  thing  more  at  least.  You  can  become 
a Christian.  You  will  not  be  carrying  out  your  promise  to  mother  until 
you  do.  Can  you  not  join  the  church  Sunday?  Promise  me  this  one 
thing  more  if  you  wish  to  make  me  the  proudest  and  happiest  girl  in  all 
the  world.” 

“Daddy  is  in  your  hands'  now,  my  dear,”  he  said,  simply.  “Your 
wishes  shall  be  his  wishes.” 

“Was  there  ever  a girl  blessed  with  such  a dear,  good,  and  noble 
daddy  as  you  are?  And  O,  daddy,  you  can  never  fully  realize  how  very 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


211 


happy  you  have  made  me.  Now  that  I have  won  this  victory,  I know 
I shall  have  less  trouble  in  winning  the  other.” 

The  sixteenth  of  June,  commencement  day  at  Howard  Seminary, 
proved  a most  beautiful  one.  The  chapel  was  crowded  to  its  utmost,  for 
it  had  been  circulated  that  Lucy  Daw,  Mr.  Jack  Daw’s  daughter,  was  to 
represent  Zetalethian  against  the  four  other  societies. 

Now,  Zeta  had  several  victories  to  its  credit  in  this  contest,  and  some 
had  come  to  think  it  could  not  be  defeated.  Jack  Daw  sat  near  the  front 
where  he  could  get  full  view  of  his  daughter.  Lucy,  who  sat  with  her 
rival  contestants,  never  looked  more  beautiful  than  she  did  then  in  her 
simple  organdie  dress,  and  her  face  was  flushed  with  the  spirit  of  enthu- 
siasm. She  must  win  not  only  for  Zeta,  but  for  her  “daddy’s”  sake,  who 
made  such  a sacriflce  for  her.  This  thought  increased  her  enthusiasm, 
and  she  was  anxious  for  the  program  to  begin.  At  last  Professor  Milsom 
arose  and  announced  the  first  speaker.  Miss  Mary  Williams,  who  repre- 
sented Thalonian,  and  whose  subject  was  “The  College  Bred  Girl.”  Miss 
Williams  spoke  well,  and  seemed  quite  satisfied  with  her  effort.  Three 
others  followed,  and — 

Lucy  realized  at  the  last  moment  that  she  had  quite  a task  before 
her,  but  the  sight  of  her  “daddy”  on  the  front  seat  seemed  to  encourage 
her  anew. 

Finally  she  arose  and  announced  her  subject  — “The  Sins  and  Evils 
in  a Saloon.”  From  the  very  start  she  plainly  captured  the  audience,  and 
when  she  had  finished,  the  strongest  approbation  was  manifested.  Some 
there  were  who  wept,  unable  to  control  their  feelings  under  the  stress  of 
her  words.  Even  Lucile  Preston’s  eyes  were  wet,  for  after  the  program 
Lucy  had  thus  addressed  the  girls  of  her  society: 

“And  girls,  you  need  not  have  been  ashamed.  I was  even  more  de- 
termined than  any  of  you  that  our  society  should  be  represented  by  one 
who_  was  acceptable  to  you.  Whether  Zeta  wins  or  loses  it  matters  not 
to  me  now,  since  I have  already  won  a most  glorious  victory  as  it  is,  one 
that  I had  rather  have  gained  than  a thousand  such  as  this  one,”  and  with 
tears  in  her  eyes  she  pointed'  to  where  “daddy”  sat,  also  in  tears.  “He  is 
my  father,”  she  said,  “whom  I love  more  than  all  the  world,  and  I am 
his  daughter;  but  at  the  same  time  I am  no  longer  the  daughter  of  a 
saloonkeeper.  That  misfortune  has  been  lifted  from  my  shoulders,  and 
I shall  never  be  burdened  with  the  same  again.”  She  sat  down,  weak 


212 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


from  the  nervous  strain,  for  she  had  thrown  her  whole  soul  into  a speech 
which  meant  so  much  for  her. 

In  announcing  the  winner  Professor  Milsom  said : “I  think  )-ou  will 
all  agree  with  me,  even  to  Miss  Williams,  who  spoke  most  excellently, 
that  the  honor  of  today  is^  justly  won  by  Miss  Lucy  Daw.  She  has,  in- 
deed, won  two  victories  in  one.  She  has  not  only  benefited  the  society 
but  the  whole  town  in  general.  Miss  Daw,  I take  great  pleasure  in  an- 
nouncing you  the  winner,  and  Zetalethian  should  feel  proud  of  such  a 
contestant. 

“She  is  at  least  that,  and  even  more  in  my  estimation,”  said  Mr.  Daw, 
later,  as  he  patted  Lucy  on  the  cheek. 

“O,  Lucy,  that  was  a fine  speech,  and  we  are  all  so  proud  of  you,” 
said  Lucile  Preston. 

“Yes,  indeed,  so  proud  that  our  society  should  have  had  such  a fine 
representative,”  said  Mabel  Lewis,  as  she  embraced  Lucy  affectionately, 
“and  we  are  going  to  have  a tea  tonight  complimentary  to  our  rival  con- 
testants. You  must  be  sure  and  be  there.” 

“I  should  be  charmed  to  accept  your  invitation,  girls,  but  daddy — ” 

“We  want  you  to  bring  ‘daddy’  with  you,  Lucy,  as  we  all  want  to 
get  acquainted  with  each  other.” 

“Lucy,  my  darling,  daddy  was  so  proud  of  his  daughter  today.  Your 
speech  was  splendid.  How  could  you  have  done  so  well,  my  dear?” 

“It  was  not  altogether  my  speech,”  said  Lucy,  happily.  “No,  daddy: 
if  it  had  not  been  for  you,  Zeta  would  now  be  sailing  under  different 
colors.” 

“I  am  sure  I have  done  very  little,  my  dear.” 

“You  have  done  all,”  replied  Lucy,  “for  by  making  it  possible  to  win 
one  victory  you  opened  up  the  way  in  helping  me  to  win  the  one  of 
today.” 

He  did  not  answer,  but  a fond  smile  was  more  expressive  than  words, 
and  together  they  entered  the  home  which  henceforth  was  to  be  one  of 
happiness  and  peace. — Selected  and  adapted. 

“PUFF,”  THE  ENGINEER. 

Evidently  there  was  something  seriously  wrong  at  the  home  of 
“Puff,”  the  engineer.  The  curtains  had  been  drawn  for  days ; the  doctor 
came  and  went;  the  few  friends  stopped  at  the  door  and  made  hasty 
inquiries.  What  did  it  all  mean? 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


213 


Let  us  introduce  you  to  the  back  room  of  the  home.  Three  persons 
are  there,  an  intimate  friend  of  the  family,  the  careworn  and  anxious 
little  wife,  and  “Puff,”  as  all  the  men  on  the  road  called  him  — he  was 
so  large  and  had  a way  of  breathing  that  reminded  one  of  the  engine 
upon  which  he  had  spent  a greater  part  of  his  life.  Now  he  was  the 
most  dejected  and  pitiable  of  men.  His  face  was  drawn,  his  voice  choked 
and  husky,  while  the  tears  rolled  down  his  wrinkled  cheeks,  as  he  mut- 
tered: “It’s  no  use  — it’s  no  use  — now!  See  that  little  wife?  See 
that  empty  cupboard?  See  me?  There  is  not  a mouthful  of  bread  or 
butter  or  anything  else  in  this  house  to  eat.  We  are  starving,  yes,  we 
are  starving,  and  that’s  all  there  is  of  it!  Oh  dear!  Oh  dear!  What 
shall  we  do  — what  shall  we  do?” 

Puff’s  friend  tried  to  tell  him  of  a position  offered  him ; his  wife 
spoke  bravely  and  encouragingly ; all  to  no  purpose.  He  had  been 
thinking  of  his  troubles  so  much  of  late  that  he  had  become  temporarily 
deranged,  and  two  days  previous  had  attempted  suicide  by  shutting  him- 
self in  his  room  and  turning  on  the  gas.  He  was  found  in  time  and 
nursed  back  to  life. 

What  was  the  cause  of  all  this?  Let  us  go  backward  and  then  follow 
the  pathway  of  his  life  up  to  this  time;  then  we  shall  find  that  his 
experience  is  not  altogether  exceptional. 

Puff  was  sympathetic  and  generous,  but  a little  weak.  Twenty  years 
earlier  he  had  a good  home,  good  neighbors,  and  friends  among  “the 
boys,”  as  he  called  them.  There  was  no  better,  no  more  trusted  engineer 
than  he.  He  ran  a passenger  train,  and  had  the  name  of  always  “getting 
there”  on  time.  When  a fast  run  was  to  be  made,  with  not  much  time 
to  make  it  in,  Puff  was  called  upon  by  the  officials  with  the  word,  “send 
her  through,”  and  he  did  it,  every  time.  Puff  was  proud  of  his  record 
and  proud  of  his  engine,  proud  of  the  confidence  imposed  in  him.  He  was 
no  drunkard,  and  would  have  been  greatly  insulted,  had  any  one  sug- 
gested such  a thing.  For  a long  time  his  wife  and  most  intimate  friends 
never  suspected  that  he  was  drinking  to  excess.  In  fact,  he  did  not  drink 
“to  excess”  as  the  phrase  is  generally  interpreted,  but  he  did  take  a 
social  glass  frequently.  However,  the  time  came  when,  had  he  been 
questioned  closely,  he  would  have  admitted  that  sometimes  his  legs  did 
feel  a little  vrobbly;  that  it  was  not  easy  to  count  the  money  of  the 
society  of  which  he  was  treasurer ; that  he  did  lie  to  his  wife  when  giving 
a reason  for  not  coming  home  earlier ; that  he  did  lie  in  giving  an  account 


214 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


of  the  money  he  expended.  Sometimes,  when  he  took  the  lever  in  his 
hands,  and  looked  down  the  shining  rails,  the  tracks  did  seem  mixed 
and  running  together.  But  Puff  persuaded  himself  that  he  was  no 
drunkard  and  could  quit  any  time,  and  would  quit  before  the  habit 
became  more  firmly  fixed.  How  self-deceived  he  was!  We  know  that 
the  drinking  habit  is  as  deceitful  as  sin,  and  as  quiet  in  its  creeping 
power  as  a serpent. 

Puff  drank  more  and  more.  His  companions  found  it  out;  his 
wife,  to  her  great  sorrow  and  humiliation,  found  it  out ; and  Puff’s 
employers  found  it  out,  though  he  gave  them  no  cause  for  complaint. 
He  was  always  ready  for  his  train,  and  always  “got  there”  in  time. 
It  is  true,  that  in  recent  years  his  frightful  running  had  caused  the  death 
of  nine  people ; but  he  was  not  to  blame ; they  simply  got  in  the  w 
of  his  “thunderbolt.” 

The  home  felt  the  growing  weakness  most.  One  day,  after  Puff 
had  received  his  check  for  one  hundred  and  thirty-five  dollars,  he  came 
home  more  boozy  than  ever,  and  said,  “Say,  wifey,  I — I will  pay  the 
bills  to-day;  you  needn’t  go  out.”  He  paid  every  bill,  but  he  did  not 
come  home  that  night,  nor  the  next  morning  until  long  after  daylight, 
and  when  he  did  come  in,  all  the  one  hundred  and  thirty-five  dollars 
was  gone  except  a lonely  ten  dollar  bill.  This  thing  grew  more  and 
more  frequent.  It  was  spoken  of  more  and  more  openly.  The  officials 
of  the  road  heard  more  of  it  than  they  wished  to  hear,  and  they  kept 
a close  watch  on  Puff. 

One  afternoon,  he  reported  for  duty,  not  having  fully  recovered  from 
the  debauch  of  the  night  before,  and  was  told  simply:  “Puff,  we  have 
concluded  that  your  services  are  no  longer  wanted  by  this  company. 
You  have  been  warned  and  you  did  not  heed  the  warning.  We  cannot 
entrust  our  trains  and  the  lives  of  our  patrons  to  a drunkard !”  Puff 
felt  like  one  who  had  been  struck  by  lightning.  He  was  sober  now, 
but  he  made  no  appeal.  He  stood  dazed  for  a moment,  then  turned 
and  left  the  office.  Going  home,  he  was  forced  to  tell  his  little  wife, 
who  heard  the  words  as  if  they  had  been  her  death  sentence ; but  he 
tried  to  cheer  her,  saying,  “Oh,  never  mind,  wifey,  I guess  it  won’t  be 
long  — perhaps  not  more  than  sixty  days  — and  I’ll  be  careful  next 
time.”  But  his  wife  saw  only  final  discharge  and  humiliation  and  dis- 
grace. She  wept  night  and  day,  for  her  poor  little  heart  had  long  been 
under  the  shadows  from  Puff’s  conduct,  and  she  had  feared  the  worst. 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


215 


For  several  days  s'he  went  about  the  house  sighing  and  sobbing.  She 
kept  the  shades  down  and  refused  to  respond  to  the  bell.  Then  there 
came  a sudden  change  in  her  demeanor,  and  she  was  heard  laughing  in 
the  night,  laughing  a silly,  hollow  laugh.  Her  husband  was  aroused, 
and  said,  “Why,  wifey,  what’s  the  matter?”  But  she  only  laughed  on 
and  on.  The  doctor  was  called  next  day,  and  she  laughed  when  she  met 
him.  She  had  lost  her  mind,  was  pronounced  insane,  and  was  soon 
taken  to  the  asylum. 

Poor  Puff,  it  seemed  his  cup  of  sorrow  was  too  full,  and  the  worst 
of  it  was,  he  knew  that  it  was  his  fault,  all  the  result  of  his  drinking. 
For  six  months  Puff  walked  the  streets  or  sat  and  brooded  and  won- 
dered what  the  next  would  be  in  his  life’s  experiences.  He  had  not 
touched  a drop  of  liquor  since  his  wife  had  been  taken  away.  He  was 
sure  he  never  would  touch  another  drop.  How  glad  he  was  when  his 
dear  wife  was  brought  home ! How  glad  he  was  when  he  was  told  that 
the  company  had  decided  to  give  him  another  trial ! How  glad  and 
happy  Puff  was,  when  once  more  he  stepped  on  the  engine,  opened  the 
throttle,  and  felt  the  thrill  of  the  iron  monster’s  bounding  speed ! Ah ! 
Was  he  too  proud?  Was  he  too  confident?  Did  he  depend  upon  his 
own  strength  too  much?  Let  others  judge  of  these  things  as  they  will; 
we  have  but  to  relate  the  facts.  Puff  was  soon  slyly  drinking  again. 
Soon  again,  all  the  money  went  each  and  every  pay-day.  Nothing  was 
left  to  put  in  the  bank,  and  the  little  wife  was  in  an  agony  of  gloomy 
apprehension  all  the  time.  In  less  than  two  years  Puff  received  his 
final  discharge,  and  this  in  no  uncertain  terms.  It  was  after  this  dis- 
charge came  that  we  found  him  as  described  in  the  opening  of  this 
story,  despondent,  humiliated,  on  the  verge  of  utter  collapse.  His  friends 
interceded  for  him,  and  he  was  finally  given  a position  as  a day  laborer, 
Avhere  he  was  able  to  earn  forty  dollars  a month.  He  is  working  for 
that  now.  It  is  a bitter  pill  for  him,  but  it  is  all  there  is  for  him,  and 
he  trudges  back  and  forth  to  his  daily  toil,  not  so  young  and  not  so 
proud  in  spirit  as  he  was  thirty  years  ago,  when  he  was  first  given  an 
engine. 

In  conversation  with  the  brave  and  faithful  wife,  recently,  this  is 
what  was  heard:  “Yes,  I know  it  is  awful  for  Puff  to  come  down  to 
forty  dollars  a month,  but  really,  I am  happier  than  when  he  drew  his 
one  hundred  and  thirty-five,  for  we  have  all  that  we  really  need.  I do 
not  worry  now  as  I did,  and  I feel  that  he  is  mine  now  more  than  ever 


216 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


before.  He  is  home  every  night ; when  he  can,  he  goes  to  church  with 
me,  and  I do  not  care  for  the  money  he  earned  so  long  as  it  did  no 
one  any  good  but  the  miserable  saloonkeepers.  I have  often  thought 
that,  had  Puff  just  taken  his  money  and  given  them  fifty  or  sixty  dollars 
every  month  and  not  touched  the  poison  they  gave  him  in  exchange, 
we  would  have  been  better  off  and  so  much  happier.” 

And  Puff,  himself,  said : “The  greatest  mistake  of  my  life  was 
when,  twenty  years  ago,  I was  invited  to  become  a Christian,  unite  wfith 
the  church  and  lead  a better  life.  But  I thought  I knew  what  was  best, 
and  now  see  what  it  has  cost  m.e  !” — C.  W.  Stephenson  in  Church  Tidings. 

JIMMIE’S  ACCOUNT. 

The  dead  twigs  of  the  bare  trees  snapped  and  whirled  hither  and 
thither  in  the  cold,  sleety  wind.  Some  of  the  twigs  struck  Jimmie  in  the 
face  as  he  ran  toward  home,  carrying  his  school  books.  He  had  found 
that  the  stinging  cold  did  not  pinch  his  feet  so  badly  if  he  ran  fast.  Poor 
feet!  A toe  peeped  out  here  and  there  through  the  rents  in  his  old  shoes. 

Though  Jimmie’s  feet  were  aching,  his  heart  was  full  of  joy,  for  he 
■had  in  his  pocket  the  last  dime  needed  to  pay  for  his  shoes.  Mr.  Boulder 
had  kept  the  shoes  for  him  two  months  now,  waiting  until  Jimmie  could 
make  up  the  full  amount,  one  dollar  and  a half.  He  had  paid  all  but 
twenty-five  cents,  and  the  dime  in  his  pocket,  added  to  the  fifteen  cents 
hidden  at  home,  would  settle  his  bill  and  give  him  the  shoes. 

Jimmie  was  the  son  of  a drunkard,  Tom  Hillbrecht.  Although  but 
twelve  years  old,  this  neglected  boy  was  able  to  earn  many  a dime,  which 
he  sadly  needed.  His  father  often  took  his  money  away  from  him,  and 
passed  it  over  to  Mr.  Saybright,  the  saloonkeeper.  Jimmie  had  learned 
that  the  only  way  to  save  money  enough  for  his  shoes  was  to  hide  some 
©f  his  earnings.  He  did  not  leave  his  money  in  the  house  any  length  of 
time,  for  his  home  was  a small,  shabby  place,  and  his  father  had  always 
succeeded  in  finding  his  hidden  money. 

When  Jimmie  reached  the  door  of  his  home  this  cold,  wintry  day,  he 
did  not  burst  in  with  a shout  as  most  boys  would  have  done ; he  was  too 
cautious  for  that.  He  opened  the  door  noiselessly  and  looked  at  his 
mother  inquiringly.  She  seemed  to  know  what  he  meant,  for  she  shook 
her  head  and  smiled  at  him.  Then  he  eagerh^  cried : 

“I  have  enough  money  to  pay  for  my  shoes,  mamma ! Can’t  I go 
right  over  and  get  them  before  father  comes  home?” 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


217 


“Not  tonight,  Jimmie.  The  last  stick  of  wood  is  in  the  stove,  and 
you  must  gather  some  more  at  once.” 

Jimmie  never  disobeyed  his  mother.  After  he  had  gone  up  the  rick- 
ety stairs'  to  his  corner  overhead,  and  hidden  away  his  precious  dime,  he 
got  his  cart  and  hurried  off  to  the  woodyard  to  gather  up  some  refuse 
wood  which  the  owner  had  kindly  given  him. 

He  had  not  been  gone  long  when  Mr.  Hillbrecht  came  home.  For 
once  he  was  sober.  He  had  no  money  to  buy  drink  that  day,  and  the  bar- 
tender would  not  trust  him.  He  had  been  a kind  husband  and  father 
before  the  drink  habit  mastered  him,  and  his  wife  still  clung  to  him,  never 
giving  up  hope. 

He  glanced  at  the  table  spread  for  the  evening  meal  and  saw  how 
meager  was  the  supply  of  food.  Then  a thought  came  to  him,  and  he 
stumbled  up  the  stairs  to  the  loft  overhead,  where  hung  his  long  neg- 
lected rifle.  He  used  to  be  a good  shot;  perhaps  even  now  he  could  win 
the  turkey  in  the  shooting  match  next  day.  He  took  down  the  rifle, 
dusted  it,  and  looked  around  for  something  with  w'hich  to  clean  it.  A 
wad  of  old  rags  was  stuffed  behind  a rafter.  He  pulled  it  out,  and  down 
rolled  something  metallic  on  the  floor.  He  stooped  and  picked  up  a dime. 
His  eyes  glittered.  Now  he  could  get  his  usual  glass,  and  with  that 
thought  he  started  toward'  the  doorway.  But  stop ! There  might  be 
more  money ; so  he  shook  out  the  rags,  and  there  fell  from  them  a paper 
wad.  He  undid  it  and  found  another  dime  and  nickel.  As  he  thrust 
them  into  his  pocket,  he  noticed  writing  and  figures  on  the  paper.  This 
is  what  he  saw : 

Oct.  2. — Paid  Mr.  Boulder  a dime.  Earned  it  carrying  water  for  Mrs. 
Green.  O how  my  back  acked. 

Oct.  15. — Paid  Mr.  Boulder  15  cts.  Earned  a quarter  but  had  to  give 
father  ten  cents  for  likker. 

Oct.  23. — Paid  10  cents  more  on  shoes. 

Nov.  2. — Got  up  at  three  and  raked  leaves  for  Squire  Green.  Got 
25  cents.  He’s  going  to  pay  Mr.  Boulder  so  father  won’t  get  it  for  likker. 

Nov.  9 — Sold  the  bread  bord  I made  at  sloyd.  Mother  said  she 
could  get  along  without  it  as  well  as  she  had  done.  Got  fifty  cents 
and  paid  to  Mister  Boulder. 

Nov.  20. — Tom  Saybright  twitted  me  to-day  of  being  a drunkard’s 
son.  My!  wasn’t  I mad!  “Who  made  him  a drunkard?”  I sang  out. 
Tom  laffed  and  said  something  more  hateful  still  about  the  frills  on  my 


218 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


shoes.  O dear  — shall  I ever  get  new  ones!  Paid  in  15  cents  to-day. 
Only  25  more  to  pay. 

Nov.  23. — Earned  15  cents.  I wonder  if  I had  some  real  heavy 
stockings  if  I couldent  get  along  with  these  shoes.  Mother  needs  so 
many  things  before  snow  comes.  Couldent  see  Mister  Boulder  to-night. 
Father  dident  ask  me  for  enny  money.  Seems  to  have  enough  and  is 
drinking  awful.  Mother  cries  a lot. 

A flush  of  shame  crept  over  Mr.  Hillbrecht’s  face  as  he  read  by  the 
fading  light.  He  began  to  review  his  past  years,  and  to  see  to  what 
depths  he  had  fallen.  He  did  not  hear  Jimmie  coming  up  the  stairs, 
and  was  only  aroused  by  his  little  son’s  cry  of  dismay  as  he  saw  that 
his  father  had  found  his  money. 

“Don’t  take  it  from  me,  father !”  he  begged  piteously. 

The  poor  drunkard  looked  at  the  handsome  boy  with  his  thread- 
bare garments  and  tattered  shoes,  and  then  thought  of  the  pampered  son 
of  the  saloon-keeper.  What  made  the  difference?  He  knew,  and  he 
vowed  that  Jimmie  should  have  a fair  chance  with  the  other  boys. 

Taking  Jimmie’s  hand,  he  said,  “Come  with  me.”  Jimmie  did  not 
dare  disobey,  but  as  he  left  the  house  and  went  toward  the  business 
part  of  the  town,  his  little  heart  throbbed  with  fear  and'  pain,  for  he 
felt  that  his  father  was  going  to  the  saloon  to  spend  the  hard-earned 
money.  His  father  had  never  before  taken  him  to  the  saloon,  and  as 
they  stood  in  the  doorway,  Jimmie  held  back,  but  his  father  drew  him 
in  and  up  to  the  counter. 

“I’ve  come  to  tell  you  that  this  is  the  last  time  I’ll  ever  cross  this 
threshold,”  said  Mr.  Hillbrecht  to  the  astonished  saloon-keeper.  “I’m 
going  to  give  my  boy  a fair  chance  with  yours.  It’s  m}^  money  and  the 
money  of  such  fools  as  these,”  he  added,  as  he  looked  around  at  the 
loafers  who  had  been  his  companions,  “that  keeps  your  family  in  such 
fine  style,  and  gives  them  a chance  to  sneer  at  our  ragged  children. 
You’ll  never  get  another  cent  from  me.” 

Then  he  stalked  out  of  the  saloon,  still  holding  Jimmie’s  hand,  and 
went  on  to  Mr.  Boulder’s,  to  whom  he  gave  the  25  cents. 

“My  boy  wants  to  settle  his  bill,”  he  said,  “and  get  his  shoes.  Put 
them  on,  Jimmie,  and  carry  the  others  home  for  firewood.” 

It  was  a happy  family  in  the  Hillbrecht  home  that  night,  and  it  was 
not  many  days  until  a fine  turkey  was  bought  for  the  Hillbrecht  table. — 
Selected  by  S.  S.  Messenger. 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


219 


FOR  THE  SAKE  OF  JIMMY. 

“Hello  there,  Central.  Give  me  Main  542.  Ah,  there,  is  that  you, 
Tad?  This  is  Rogers,  Scott  Rogers.  Just  to  tell  you  I’ll  go  to-night. 
Yes,  I’ll  bring  my  violin.  Meet  you  at  five  minutes  to  eight?  All  right. 
I’ll  be  on  hand.  What’s  that?  Tad  Williams,  when  did  you  ever  know 
me  to  back  out  when  I said  I’d  do  a thing?” 

The  receiver  was  hung  in  its  place  with  undue  violence,  and  the 
door  of  the  telephone  room  closed  with  such  force  as  to  cause  the 
manager  to  look  up  with  a frown. 

“And  why  shouldn’t  I go  if  I please?”  argued  Scott  Rogers  with 
his  better  self  all  that  morning,  as  he  mechanically  posted  his  ledger  or 
footed  up  columns  of  figures.  “I’m  my  own  master  if  anybody  ever  was. 
It  isn’t  as  if  there  was  anybody  to  care  one  way  or  the  other.  Now  if 
I had  a mother,  like  Tad  Williams,  who  was  begging  and  praying  him 
to  give  up  those  club  affairs,  it  would  be  different.  Or  even  if  it  was 
a case  like  Will  Jennings  with  a whole  lot  of  youngsters  growing  up  in 
his  family,  and  he  the  oldest.  Of  course,  they’ll  go  just  where  Will 
does.  But  it’s  different  with  me;  not  a relative  in  all  the  world  who 
cares  a continental  whether  I get  in  at  seven  at  night  or  three  in  the 
morning,  or  in  fact  whether  I get  in  at  all.  Nobody  has  a heartache 
if  they  see  me  smoking  a cigaret  or  smell  whisky  on  my  breath.  It 
used  to  give  me  rather  a lonesome  feeling,  but  after  all,  it  makes  easy 
living;  responsible  to  nobody  and  for  nobody.” 

“Rogers,”  said  the  manager  in  the  middle  of  the  afternoon,  “can 
you  take  the  time  from  your  books  to  attend  to  a little  matter?  It  is 
a matter  of  repairs  at  586  Dismond  Street,  one  of  Greeley’s  houses,  a 
leakage  in  the  roof.  I want  somebody  from  the  office  to  look  into  it 
before  we  send  the  roofing  men  down,  and  there  is  nobody  but  you 
available  just  now.  The  Grove  Street  car  will  take  you  right  there.” 

“All  right,  sir.”  Scott  was  slipping  into  his  overcoat  as  he  spoke. 
“Dismond  Street  — seems  as  though  I knew  somebody  down  that  way. 
The  npmber  586  has  a familiar  sound,  too,”  he  mused.  As  he  left  the 
car  and  approached  the  modest  two-story  frame  building,  the  place  con- 
nected itself  with  something  in  his  memory.  “If  it  isn’t  Belding’s  house,” 
he  said  to  himself.  “I  didn’t  think  I’d  forget  that  number  so  soon,” 
recalling  the  occasion  of  a visit  to  the  place  in  the  lonesome  morning 
hours.  Three  times  he  pressed  the  electric  button  before  his  ring  was 


220 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


answered  by  a sweet-faced  little  woman.  She  offered  profuse  apologies 
for  keeping  him  waiting,  but  the  best  of  Excuses  was  written  plainly  on 
her  tell-tale  face,  flushed  with  some  deep  emotion,  and  in  the  worried 
eyes  quite  evidently  hastily  bathed  to  remove  signs  of  violent  weeping. 

“From  Morton’s  Real  Estate  Agency?”  she  repeated  after  him  in  a 
bewildered  manner.  “Oh,  yes,  pardon  me,  I remember  — the  leak  in 
the  roof — I telephoned  about  it,  didn’t  I?  Yes,  it  leaked  in  badly  that 
rainy  night,  Thursday,  I guess  it  was.  I had  almost  forgotten  it,  so 
many  things  have  happened  since,  so  many  worse  things  than  leaks  in 
roofs.”  The  tender  mouth  of  the  little  woman  trembled. 

Young  Rogers  looked  sympathetic.  “I  fear  you’re  in  trouble,  Mrs. 
Belding,”  he  said,  gently.  “If  there  is  anything  I can  do  — I’ll  be  so 
glad  to  be  of  assistance  to  you.  I think  I know  your  son.” 

The  little  woman  gave  one  quick,  furtive,  hungry  look  into  the  face 
of  the  handsome  young  fellow.  “You  know  my  Jimmy?”  she  queried, 
her  searching,  mother’s  eyes  now  looking  straight  into  his,  with  a 
steady,  penetrating  gaze  as  if  she  would  peer  down  into  his  very  heart. 

“Yes,”  replied  Rogers  promptly,  although  a tell-tale  flush  came  to 
his  cheeks,  as  he  recalled  the  occasions  that  had  led  to  his  acquaintance 
with  her  “Jimmy.” 

“Your  name  is ” Rogers  finished  the  sentence.  “Scott  Rogers. 

You  may  have  heard  James  speak  of  me.”  Again  the  flush  came  to  the 
young  man’s  face. 

“Indeed,  I have.”  The  little  woman  responded  cordially.  ‘Alany, 
many  times.”  She  reached  out  her  hand  impulsively  toward  her  visitor. 
“I  have  wanted  so  many  times  to  meet  you,  to  know  3'ou,  to  talk  with 

you ” she  hesitated,  then  concluded  with  a tremor  in  her  voice — 

“about  Jimmy.  Could  you  spare  a few  minutes  ? Could  we  have  a little 
talk  together?  The  leak  in  the  roof  can  wait  — it  doesn’t  matter  much 
compared  with  other  things.  Perhaps  I ought  not  to  take  your  time,  j'ou 
are  a busy  man,  no  doubt,  but  if  I could?” 

“Certainly,  madam,”  was  the  prompt  response,  “but  I think  j^ou  are 
misinformed.  You  would  think  less  of  me  if  you  knew  the  kind  of  a 
friend  I have  been  to  Jimmy  — not  as  helpful  as  I might  have  been, 
I am  afraid.” 

“Oh,  but  you  might  be.  I know  if  you  could  only  understand  how 
it  is,  you  would  be.  I don’t  believe  there  is  anybody  in  the  world,  not 
even  myself,  his  mother,  who  has  such  power  to  make  a man  of  m}^ 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


221 


Jimmy  as  you.  Oh,  I have  just  been  praying  that  in  some  way  I might 
meet  you  and  talk  with  you,  and  I believe  the  Lord  himself  must  have 
sent  you  here  to-day.” 

Scott  Rogers  looked  uncomfortable.  The  idea  of  his  having  been 
sent  as  a special  angel  of  light  to  comfort  this  worried  little  mother,  was 
not  only  startling,  but  discomfiting. 

“1  don’t  suppose  you  know,”  she  continued,  “boys  never  do,  how 
much  of  a hero  you  are  in  the  eyes  of  my  boy.  The  first  few  weeks 
after  he  became  acquainted  with  you,  he  talked  continually  of  what 
Scott  Rogers  said  and  did,  and  it  was  a foregone  conclusion,  I knew,  that 
Jimmy,  with  his  capacity  for  hero-worship,  would  follow  just  where  you 
led.  Please  don’t  think  I am  preaching  or  even  chiding,  but  Oh,  how  I 
hoped  in  those  days  that  you  were  the  real  hero  that  Jimmy  thought  you 
were,  who  would  lead  him  to  noble  things  and  help  him  to  withstand 
his  temptations.” 

The  young  man  before  her  dropped  his  face  into  his  hands,  to  con- 
ceal the  emotion  he  knew  was  written  there. 

“You  see,  Jimmy  is  different,”  the  voice  faltered  and  the  hands 
nervously  fondled  one  another.  “He  isn’t  strong  in  some  things,  because 
of  an  inherited  weakness.”  She  spoke  the  last  two  words,  with  almost  a 
gasp,  as  if  they  hurt  her.  “He  can’t  meet  temptations  of  wine  and 
such  things  as  you  and  the  other  boys  can,  but  he  doesn’t  realize  it.  I 
know,  Mr.  Rogers,  I am  doing  a most  unconventional  and  perhaps  an 
inexcusable  thing,  but  it  is  a matter  of  infinite  importance  to  me  and  to 
Jimmy,  and  I know  no  other  human  being  who  can  do  so  much  for  my 
Jimmy  as  you.  They  brought  him  home  last  night,  perhaps  you  knew 
about  it ; for  all  I know,  you  were  one  of  his  escorts.” 

The  young  man  before  her  shook  his  head. 

“No.  Well,  I am  glad  you  were  not  at  the  affair.  He  slept  half 
the  morning,  and  then  went  to  work  with  such  an  aching  head  that  he 
will  be  practically  useless  all  day.  To-night  is  the  night  he  always  goes 
to  the  club  — the  Jovial  Fellows,  I believe  they  call  themselves,  and 
he  told  me  it  was  to  be  an  extra  occasion,  and  that  he  was  to  sing  — 
that’s  why  they  want  him,  because  of  his  beautiful  voice.  And  he  will 
go  to-night,  I can  t prevent  it.  I,  only  a weak  woman,  cannot  always 
persuade  him  — Oh,  what  will  be  the  end?”  Her  voice  ended  in  a wail, 
and  she  threw  herself  upon  the  couch,  hiding  her  face  in  a pillow. 

Shame,  self-contempt,  concern,  anxiety,  consternation  chased  each 


222 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


other  across  the  face  of  Scott  Rogers.  Then  he  pulled  himself  to  his  feet 
and  braced  his  broad  shoulders  as  if  for  an  encounter  with  an^  enemy. 

“Please,  Mrs  Belding,”  he  pleaded,  “please  don’t.  The  end  isn’t 
going  to  be  what  you  fear.”  He  threw  out  every  word  with  an  almost 
explosive  energy,  as  if  he  feared  to  give  himself  time  to  change  his 
mind.  “I  had  made  myself  think  — I argued  it  out  this  very  morning, 
that  I hadn’t  any  vital  connection  with  anything  or  anybody,  and  that  it 
didn’t  matter  one  little  bit  whether  I walked  straight  or  crooked.  What 
a fool  I was,  not  to  know  and  understand  that  nobody  ever  stands  alone 
in  this  world.  You’ve  burned  the  truth  into  me  as  you  talked  about 
Jimmy,  and  I see  how  I’ve  almost  lost  my  chance  to  be  a good  friend  to 
him.  Maybe  I can  afford  to  spoil  my  own  life,  by  going  at  any  old  pace 
I please,  but  I just  tell  you,  Mrs.  Belding,  I haven’t  got  quite  so  low 
down  that  I can  in  cold  blood'  make  up  my  mind  to  help  another  fellow 
to  go  to  the  dogs,  and  break  a mother’s  heart  in  the  bargain.” 

Mrs.  Belding  was  sitting  up  now,  looking  into  his  face  with  pathetic 
eagerness  and  confidence.  “And  you  will  help  then,  you  will  be  a 
friend  to  my  Jimmy,  a true  friend?” 

Scott  Rogers  grasped  the  nervous,  feverish  little  hand  of  the  mother 
in  his  own  strong,  firm  fingers.  “I’ll  do  it,  Mrs.  Belding.  You  can 
depend  on  me.  We’ll  pull  him  through  as  sure  as  my  name  is  Rogers. 
I never  knew  what  it  was  to  have  a mother  to  love  me,  but  you’ve 
shown  me  what  a beautiful  thing  a mother’s  love  is,  and  I’m  going  to 
help  your  Jimmy  to  be  true  to  it.  Now  for  the  leak  in  the  roof,  Mrs. 
Belding,  if  you  please,  for  I must  get  back  to  the  office,  and  attend  to 
some  other  things  before  evening.” 

Things  happened  in  the  remaining  hours  of  that  afternoon  with  a 
rapidity  that  startled  at  least  two  people.  Jimmy  Belding,  sitting  at  his 
desk  in  the  big  counting  room  of  Blair  & Buck,  trying,  with  dull,  aching 
head,  to  get  through  the  day’s  work,  was  surprised  by  a caller.  The 
caller  stood  not  upon  ceremony,  but  looking  down  from  his  six  feet  of 
dogged  determination,  said  calmly: 

“Hello,  Jimmy.  I just  dropped  in  to  say  that  that  affair  this  evening 
out  at  Hubbell’s  is  called  off,  for  }X3u  and  for  me.  You’re  not  to  sing 
and  I’m  not  to  play,  and  we’ll  neither  of  us  be  there.” 

Jimmy  tried  to  gather  together  his  befuddled  wits. 

“Called  off?  Why,  I promised  to  meet  the  boys  at  eight!”  he 
expostulated. 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


223 


“So  did  I,”  said  Scott  Rogers.  “And  I’m  going  to  break  that  promise 
all  to  smithereens,  and  so  are  you.  I tell  you,  neither  of  us  is  going 
to  those  things  at  Hubbell’s  to-night.” 

Jimmy  looked  worried;  his  somewhat  weak  lips  moved  nervously. 
“Oh,  say,  Scptt,  I can’t.  I promised  to  go.  I can’t  go  back  on  a promise. 
What’ll  the  fellows  say?” 

“You  can  and  will,”  said  Rogers  grimly  and  firmly.  “All  you’ve  got 
to  do,  if  you  feel  unequal  to  the  emergency,  is  to  keep  away  from  the 
telephone,  and  I’ll  do  the  rest.  I’ll  make  Tad  Williams  and  the  rest 
understand.  Don’t  you  fear.  Then  I am  to  meet  you  here  at  5:30;  don’t 
you  leave  without  me,  mind,  and  we  are  to  take  dinner  together;  then 
I’ll  tell  you  the  rest.  You  said  you  would,  didn’t  you?” 

“You  know  you  can  make  me  do  anything  you  want  to,”  said 
Jimmy,  dropping  his  eyes  under  the  other  determined  gaze. 

“I  hope  it  is  true,”  thought  Scott,  as  he  walked  out  of  the  office 
with  the  brisk  air  of  a man  who  has  important  business  on  hand. 

Ten  minutes  later,  he  was  asking  Central  to  connect  him  with  Main 
542.  “Hello,  that  you.  Tad?  Yes,  it’s  Rogers.  Just  to  tell  you,  that 
Jimmy  Belding  and  I cannot  be  at  that  club  affair  to-night.  No,  I say 
we  can’t  — C-A-N-T  — the  word  that  is’t  in  the  dictionary.  Yes,  I hear 
you,  I know  perfectly  well  what  you  think  of  me.  Don’t  take  the 
trouble  to  repeat  it.  Yes,  I hear.  Say  it  again,  if  it  relieves  your  mind. 
The  reason,  you  ask?  Well,  to  be  frank  and  perfectly  serious,  tre- 
mendously serious.  Tad  Williams,  the  reason  of  it  all  is  just  this : A 
different  person  is  talking  with  you  over  this  ’phone  this  afternoon  from 
the  one  who  talked  with  you  this  morning.  I’ve  grown  about  fifty  years 
since  then,  and  it  is  absolutely  impossible  for  me  to  go,  and  for  Jimmy 
Belding  to  go.  Yes,  I broke  a promise,  I admit  it,  and  I’d  break  a 
hundred  more  of  the  same  kind  and  be  proud  of  myself  for  doing  it; 
though  I’d  be  ashamed  to  think  I ever  made  them.  Yes,  I hear  — I 
understand — Yes,  I have  a very  clear  and  distinct  idea  of  just  what 
the  fellows  will  think  and  say  of  me.  If  you  remember,  I have  said  all 
those  things  — the  things  they’ll  say,  and  in  just  as  disagreeable  fashion 
as  they  can  say  them,  of  other  fellows.  No,  I’m  not  going  to  be  a 
goody-goody  boy;  I’m  going  to  be  a man  for  the  first  time  in  my  life, 
and  I’m  going  to  accept  a few  of  the  responsibilities  that  go  with  being 
a man ; and  what’s  more,  I’m  going  to  help  the  next  fellow  to  be  one,  too. 
Is  that  sufficiently  clear?  Yes,  sir,  that’s  going  to  be  my  business  here- 


224 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


after,  and  the  Jovial  Fellows  not  being  in  that  line,  the  Jovial  Fellows 
and  I have  parted  company  forever.  That’s  all.  Good-bye.” — Julia  F. 
Deane  in  Union  Signal. 

TOW-HEAD. 

A young  woman,  awaiting  the  opening  of  the  Juvenile  Court,  threw 
her  fur  coat  over  the  back  of  a chair,  behind  which  sat  a row  of  little 
probationers.  Small  hands  stroked  the  jacket’s  soft  smoothness,  while 
low-toned  bets  were  exchanged  as  to  the  kind  of  animal  it  had  once 
adorned.  Finally,  emboldened  by  the  smiling  face  turned  partially 
toward  them,  one  youngster  asks : 

“Say,  what’s  it  made  outer?” 

“Seal.” 

“Gee!  Real  or  play?” 

A rosy  flush  mounted  to  her  brow,  as,  feigning  deafness,  she  lifted 
merry  eyes  to  the  round  reflections  dancing  in  wild  gyrations  of  light 
over  the  ceiling  of  the  great  room.  A majority  of  the  lads  came  armed 
with  circular  little  mirrors  which  they  flashed  in  the  sun,  as  well  as  in 
the  eyes  of  the  court  offlcials,  their  natural  prey. 

“There’s  the  old  Tramway  cop,  the  fat  Phoenix!  Give  it  to  ’im  in 
the  eye !” 

The  good-natured  ofiflcer  blinked  in  more  senses  than  one  at  the  daz- 
zling glare,  as  with  a knowing  leer  at  the  boys,  he  turned  out  of  range. 

At  Judge  Findley’s  entrance,  the  glasses  were  pocketed  as  by  a 
common  impulse.  His  brief  address  to  the  boys,  couched  in  a language 
intelligible  to  the  most  benighted,  was  followed  by  the  taking  of  reports 
and  a partial  clearing  of  the  room,  as  the  first  case  on  the  crowded 
docket  was  called.  At  2:30  Eddy  Collins’  name  was  called,  bringing 
forward  a white-headed,  weazen-faced,  bony  child,  with  eyes  too  big  for 
his  odd  little  phiz. 

“Tow-head !”  was  heard  from  some  of  the  waiting  boys,  as  the 
little  fellow  stepped  before  the  judge.  His  Honor  smiled,  a genial 
warmth  lighting  his  tired  face,  as  he  passed  a hand  over  his  own  thin- 
ning hair. 

“It’s  better  to  be  tow-headed  than  bald-headed,  any  day!  Isn’t  it. 
Eddy?” 

An  old,  automatic  smile  wrinkled  the  thin  little  face,  but  no  humor 


'Down,  foot  by  foot,  carefully  feeling  his  way.” 


THE  FAITH  OF  HETTY  RIA 
“Oh,  deary  me,  it’s  almost  too  big  a job  for  a girl.” 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


225 


lit  the  solemn  eyes,  and  the  judge  sighed  with  renewed  weariness  as  he 
demanded  the  charge  against  the  child.  Eddy  stood,  toeing  in  and  out 
with  an  absent-minded  monotony. 

“Drunkenness  and  frequenting  saloons,  your  Honor,”  answered  the 
probation  officer. 

A heavy  frown  lowered  between  Judge  Findley’s  clear,  dark  eyes, 
which,  despite  all,  still  held  some  message  of  faith  and  hope  for  every 
little  chap  who  sought  it  there. 

“Can  it  be  true,  Eddy,  after  all  my  talk  about  this  most  serious 
offense?” 

The  tow-head  nodded,  while  the  downcast,  hungry  eyes  remained 
fixed,  in  vague  concentration  upon  his  shoes,  through  which  bare  toes 
poked. 

“Did  your  father  send  you  to  buy  liquor?” 

Again  the  silently  bowed  head. 

“He  committed  a grave  crime,  but  was  that  any  reason  why  you 
should  drink  the  whiskey,  even  if  you  had  to  buy  it?”  * 

No  answer. 

“Look  at  me,  my  boy!” 

Eyes  of  dumb  pain  gazed  unwinkingly  from  the  stolid,  changeless 

face. 

“Aren’t  you  one  of  the  boys  that  promised  to  help  hold  down  my 
job,  by  playing  square,  after  I gave  you  another  chance?” 

A mute  assent  was  given. 

“Well,  I’ve  done  my  part,  haven’t  I?  Answer  me!” 

“Yes,  Jedge !” 

“But  how  about  you,  Ed?  Have  you  any  further  claim  on  my 
patience  and  faith?” 

“No,  Jedge.” 

“You  know  what  this  means,  Eddy?” 

“Yes,  Jedge!” — and  a slight  quiver  of  life  stirred  the  little  stoic’s 

face. 

“Have  you  no  excuse,  my  boy,  for  breaking  your  word  and  going 
back  on  the  man  who  has  been  your  friend?” 

Hope  died  hard  with  Judge  Findley. 

“No,  less’n — ” the  great  eyes  burned  in  hot  scrutiny  over  the  intent, 
listening  faces  of  the  other  boys. 

“Bailiff,  take  those  children  farther  back.  Come  close,  my  boy.” 


226 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


She  of  the  fur  coat  was  thankful  for  keen  hearing  and  nearness 
to  the  judge,  as  alert,  with  downcast  eyes,  she  waited,  engulfed  in  waves 
of  pity  for  the  boy. 

“Unless  what,  Eddy?”  the  judge’s  arm  encircling  the  child’s 
shoulders. 

“Less’n  being  cold  ’n’  hungry  ’n’  druv  wid  blows  to  the  s’loons  goes 
for  somepen  — I thought  I’d  fergit  fer  a spell  — like  pa  — ’n’  it  felt  warm 
— then  I run  agin  the  cop ” 

“Did  your  mother  try  and  prevent  your  going  to  the  saloon?” 

“No,  Jedge.” 

“When  did  you  eat  last?” 

The  question  was  almost  inaudible. 

“Yisteddy  mornin’.” 

Every  trace  of  gentleness  fled  from  the  judge’s  face,  as  he  leaned 
eagerly  toward  the  oiflcer: 

“Swear  out  a warrant  for  the  father  and  mother  of  this  boy,  charging 
them  wifh  contributing  to  a delinquency.  I hold  them  more  guilty  than 
their  son. 

“You  will  also  get  the  name  and  address  of  that  saloon-keeper  who 
dares  break  the  juvenile  laws  of  this  state.” 

“Pa’s  skipped,  jedge.” 

The  boy  started  to  his  feet  as  he  spoke,  to  be  again  thrust  back. 

“When,  Eddy?” 

“Soon’s  he’d  licked  me  fer  swipin’  the  whiskey !” 

“Did  he  say  where  he  was  going?” 

“Jus  any  old  place  clear  o’  women  ’n’  kids !” 

“We’ll  find  him,  never  you  fear!  How  does  your  mother  treat  you?” 

“She  hain’t  got  no  time  fer  me,  what  wid  diggin’  ’n’  cryin’  ’n’ 
workin’  wid  the  little  kids.  She  says  all  she  wants  o’  me  is  ter  keep 
out  o’  her  way.” 

A long  silence  followed.  Judge  Findley’s  eyes  wide  and  unseeing,  as 
troubled  thought  went  on  behind  the  fixed  inner  absorption  of  his 
glance. 

“Eddy,  my  heart  goes  out  to  you,  my  poor  boy,  and  I feel  that 
you’re  not  to  blame  for  much  of  your  wrongdoing.  But  you’ve  got  to 
be  corrected  and  helped.  If  they  hadn’t  got  after  me  when  I was  a kid, 
I’d  have  got  into  bigger  troubles,  troubles  they  want  to  keep  you  out 
of,  too.” 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


227 


' r 

Eddy  perched  on  the  very  edge  of  the  chair,  with  eyes  devouring  his 
Honor’s  face ; but  ears  closed  to  the  pity  of  the  firm  voice  because  of  a 
great  roaring.  A faint  grayness  tinged  the  wan,  unchildlike  face, 

“Because  I believe  it  for  your  good,  I shall  send  you  to  the  School 
of  Detention,  here  in  Denver,  for  one  month.  It  is  under  the  charge  of 
a very  kind  woman,  who  will  see  that  you  are  kept  warm,  well  fed  and 
cared  for.  There’ll  be  no  chance  to  get  into  any  trouble,  and  in  this 
way  I hope  to  keep  you  out  of  the  Industrial  School  at  Golden.  When 
the  month  is  up,  we’ll  see  what  is  best.” 

The  child  pushed  close  to  the  court,  his  cheeks  hot  with  a fleeting 
glow,  the  eyes  big  with  excitement,  while  eager,  pleading  little  hands 
were’  outstretched. 

“Oh,  jedge  ! Please,  jedge ” 

“Brace  up,  Ed,  and  take  it  like  the  man  I know  you  can  be ! 
Don’t  beg!” 

“But,  jedge,  please,  won’t  yer  please  to  make  it  a year?  I’d  ruther — ” 

The  judge  started,  leaning  toward  the  child  as  he  paused,  but 
Eddy  went  white,  clutching  at  the  table  for  support.  Swinging  the 
reeling  little  figure  into  a chair.  Judge  Findley  held  water  to  the  boy’? 
lips.  Low-voiced,  gentle  words  sought  to  penetrate  the  giddy  whirl  of 
Eddy’s  thoughts,  but  these  alone  made  an  impression : 

“You  need  not  go  back  to  your  home,  my  boy,  at  the  end  of  the 
month,  if  you  still  feel  as  you  do.  We’ll  find  you  a better  home,  little 
chap !” 

The  child  closed  his  eyes  and  never  knew  that  his  head  rested 
against  Judge  Findley’s  arm,  or  that  the  potent  power  of  a patient,  virile 
tenderness  upbore  his  stumbling  little  life,  never  to  be  withdrawn,  while 
great  heart  or  clever  brain  throbbed  within  this  man  who  remembered 
his  own  boyhood. 

Then  the  world  cleared  and  steadied  as  something  hot  and  beefy  was 
forced  upon  him  by  a tender,  womanly  hand.  He  dimly  heard  the  next 
case  called  and  wondered  dreamily  why  the  “Jedge”  sat  with  eyes 
covered  by  his  hand. 

“We’ll  be  going  now,  Eddy.  Can  you  walk  to  the  car,  dear  boy?” 
asked  Mrs.  Bright  of  the  Detention  Home,  bending  over  her  new  charge 
with  motherly  gentleness. 

“Sure !”  with  plucky  cheer. 

She  held  him  so  tight  under  one  arm  while  leading  him  past  his 


228 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


Honor,  that  the  boy  looked  up  with  a feeble  attempt  at  “joshin’.” 

“On  the  square,  ma’am.  I won’t  work  no  bluff  an’  give  ye  the  slip !” 

He  thought  the  whirling  must  be  returning  as  he  cast  a look  of  fare- 
well at  Judge  Findley,  for  the  blurred  smile  in  the  shadowed  eyes  of  His 
Honor  was  not  the  clear  one  he  knew. — Mary  Talbott  Campbell  in  Chil- 
dren’s Home  Finder. 

HOW  HIS  EASTER  CAME. 

“It’s  so  stormy,  Godfrey,”  objected  the  invalid. 

“And  so  late  in  the  week,”  counter-objected  the  stalwart  youth  of 
nineteen  who  smiled  down  into  the  white  face  on  the  pillow.  “If  it  is 
to  be  done  this  week,  mother,  I must  go  to-day.  There’s  not  an  hour 
to  spare.” 

“But  you  won’t  stop  at  Jonas  Wyland’s?  Promise  me  that,  God- 
frey.” One  thin  hand  caught  at  the  broad  palm  resting  on  the  coverlet 
and  the  pale  lips  quivered. 

“No,  I will  not  stop  at  Wyland’s,  if  that  will  comfort  you,  mother,” 
answered  the  youth,  a flush  dyeing  his  dark  cheek.  “But,”  he  added  — 
for  subterfuge  was  unknown  to  Godfrey  Brent  — “But  Jonas  has  prom- 
ised to  meet  me  at  Y .” 

A swift  pain  traversed  the  sweet  face  of  the  woman.  Her  eyes 
closed  for  a moment  as  if  in  prayer.  The  young  man  patted  the  hand 
still  in  his.  “I’m  not  such  a bad  fellow,  mother,  that  you  need  be  afraid 
to  trust  me  out  of  your  sight,”  he  said,  a trifle  impatiently. 

“No,  but  — Godfrey,  I am  afraid,  all  the  same,  afraid.  There’s 
always  the  scent  of  strong  drink  about  you  when  vou’ve  been  with  Jonas 
Wyland.” 

“You’ve  never  seen  me  the  worse  for  liquor,  mother,”  cried  the 
youth.  “No  one  ever  has,  and  no  one  ever  will!  If  I can  take  a glass 
with  the  fellows  and  no  harm  from  it,  why  shouldn’t  I?  It  has  not 
harmed  me  yet.” 

“How  can  it  help  harming  you,  Godfrey?  You  are  my  own  dear 
boy,  but  — but  you’re  not  what  you  were  a year  ago.”  The  woman 
spoke  slowly  and  with  effort,  ending  with  a little  catch  in  her  voice. 

“Not  what  I was  a year  ago!  How  can  I be?  A fellow  must  grow, 
must  change.  I can’t  be  a man  and  a boy,  too.  It’s  time  you  trusted  me 
a little.  I’m  not  the  fellow  to  be  tied  to  an  apron  string  or  to  walk 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


229 


in  one  rut  lifelong.  The  constant  round  of  grind  on  this  farm  is  tread- 
mill enough.  ‘All  work  and  no  play  makes  Jack  a dull  boy.’  I’ve  got 
to  have  my  play.” 

“And  welcome,  if  it’s  only  clean  play,  Godfrey.  Playing  with  edged 
tools  is  not  fun ; it’s  foolhardiness.” 

The  youth’s  lips  set.  “Have  it  your  own  way,  mother,”  he  said, 
“only  remember,  I can’t  and  won’t  be  cooped  up  forever.  I’m  half-stifled 
as  it  is!  Take  my  liberty  from  me  and  I might  as  well  die  at  once.” 

“You’re  all  I have,  Godfrey.” 

“Plus  Sis,  you  mean.” 

“All  the  man  I have.  All  that  either  Sally  or  I have  to  lean  on. 
You’ll  have  to  be  brave  and  clean  for  our  sakes.  Strong  drink  destroys 
both  body  and  soul.” 

The  youth  laughed  as  he  stretched  his  long  limbs  and  flung  back  his 
broad  shoulders.  “I  look  like  a weakling,”  he  said,  glancing  at  himself 
in  a mirror  on  the  opposite  wall.  “Your  fears  are  the  result  of  your 
illness,  little  mother,”  stooping  suddenly  to  kiss  the  pain  from  the  lifted 
face.  “I’m  a pretty  good  boy  to  spare  you  so  much  of  my  time  this 
morning.  If  I don’t  start  soon.  Sis  will  be  up  till  midnight,  waiting  for 
my  comirjg  home.  Rest  easy  and  don’t  fret;  I’m  big  enough  to  take 
care  of  myself.” 

The  invalid  clung  to  his  neck.  “God  keep  you  I”  she  cried,  “and 
may  He  bring  you  back  to  me  safe  and  — sober!” 

The  dark  head  came  up  proudly.  “If  you  see  me  at  all,  mother,  you 
will  see  me  sober,”  he  exclaimed  wrathfully.  “No  one  has  ever  seen 
me  otherwise,  and  no  one  ever  will.”  He  flung  himself  from  the  room. 

“He  is  blind  ! God  help  him  ; he  is  blind  !”  sobbed  the  mother,  as  she 
nestled  in  the  pillows.  “O  Thou  who  answerest  prayer,  deal  with  him 
to-day ; open  his  eyes  to-day ; show  him  whither  his  steps  tend,  and  how 
vain  is  his  boast  of  strength  while  he  tampers  with  alcohol ; give  him 
a glimpse  of  the  truth  ere  it  is  too  late  ! O Father,  Father  ! save  my  boy !” 

The  woman  was  still  praying  — though  silently  — when  her  daugh- 
ter entered  the  room  a half-hour  later.  “See  mother,”  cried  the  girl, 
“Godfrey  has  sent  you  the  first  arbutus  blossoms  of  the  season.  Nell 
had  wandered  into  the  woods,  and  while  after  her,  he  discovered  these 
darlings  peeping  out  at  him  from  under  a drift  of  leaves.  He  says  they 
are  harbingers  of  good ; messengers  of  cheer ; and  you  are  to  keep  them 
in  sight  till  you  see  him  again.”  The  maiden  held  the  fragrant  beauties 


230 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


to  her  mother’s  nostrils  for  a moment,  then  yielded  them  to  her  hand 
while  she  smoothed  the  hair  from  the  pale  face  and  placed  the  pillows 
more  comfortably  for  the  dear  head. 

“Godfrey  grows  so  handsome !”  she  went  on  proudly ; “he  looked  like 
a prince  as  he  rode  off.  He’s  sure  Nell’s  colt  will  satisfy  Mr.  March,  and 
that  he  will  finish  paying  off  the  mortgage  to-day  and  have  enough 
money  left  to  buy  the  grain  and  the  shingles  for  the  barn  roof.  And 
you  and  I are  to  allow  ourselves  only  the  happiest  of  thoughts  all  day, 
he  says;  ‘for  though  it  is  Friday,  it  is  Good  Friday,  and  must,  there- 
fore, be  lucky  Friday.’  Those  were  his  words.” 

“Good  Friday!”  Mrs.  Brent  echoed,  a soft  amazement  in  her  voice. 
“Good  Friday!  I had  quite  forgotten  it!”  The  words  fell  on  her  heart 
with  strange  soothing.  Good  Friday!  The  day  when  He  who  was  truly 
Good,  paid  the  price  of  Brotherhood  to  the  weak ! Could  God  deny 
anything  asked  in  Christ’s  name  on  Good  Friday?”  She  held  the  arbutus 
close  to  her  cheek,  light  growing  in  her  tender  eyes.  This  blossom,  born 
in  the  cold,  struggling  up  through  darkness  and  frost  to  greet  the  light, 
must  be  truly  a harbinger  of  good,  a messenger  of  cheer.  When  Sally 
came  in  softly  a little  later,  she  found  her  mother  sleeping  quietly, 
her  precious  flowers  pressed  to  her  bosom.  With  a sigh  of  relief  the 
young  girl  went  out  to  finish  the  work  about  the  house ; she  had  feared 
her  mother  might  have  a restless  day. 

As  she  busied  herself  with  the  dishes,  with  sweeping  and  dusting 
the  dining  room,  Sally’s  thoughts  followed  the  loved  brother  who  had 
ridden  forth  an  hour  since.  He  was  all  the  world  to  her.  Lo3-ally  and 
jealously  she  had  watched  over  and  cherished  him  his  life  long,  for  she 
was  two  years  his  senior.  She  had  discovered  and  exulted  in  every 
grace  and  charm  of  her  baby  brother.  She  had  led  him  to  school, 
pulled  him  on  her  sled,  swung  him  till  her  arms  ached.  They  had  waded 
the  brook  and  hunted  for  wild  flowers  and  birds’  eggs  together;  he  had 
come  to  her  in  every  difficulty  for  comfort  and  help ; until,  suddenl)-,  he 
was  a whole  head  above  her,  could  lift  her  with  ease,  brought  in  the 
wood  and  water  nightly  alone  and  did  all  the  “chores.” 

She  never  quite  understood  how  it  came  to  pass,  but  after  that  the 
petting  and  comforting  changed  hands.  He  called  her  “little  sis,”  kissed 
her  — as  he  did  his  mother  — when  leaving  home  and  at  bed-time.  Her 
pride  in  him  took  a different  groove.  He  was  clever  and  led  in  his 
classes.  The  “examples”  that  puzzled  her,  explained  themselves  to  him 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


231 


without  effort;  the  sentences  in  English  and  the  dates  in  history  that 
were  ever  getting  mixed  in  her  memory,  held  separate  and  exact  places 
in  his.  He  became  leader,  she  follower;  he  the  authority,  she  his  echo  — 
such  a loyal  and  admiring  echo  as  few  boys  are  fortunate  enough  to 
possess. 

When  itheir  father  died,  Godfrey  took  another  stride  toward  man- 
hood. His  shoulders  broadened,  his  protectiveness  developed;  he  became 
man  and  boy  in  one  — the  support,  expectation  and  stay  of  two  gentle 
hearts.  Everything  good  and  bright  in  the  lives  of  the  invalid  and  the 
fond  sister  centered  in  him.  It  was  almost  idolatry  but  idolatry  so 
mingled  with  prayer  and  praise  to  the  Giver  of  every  good  thing  that  it 
could  scarcely  have  offended  Heaven. 

Then  a cloud  arose,  no  bigger  than  a man’s  hand.  Sally  could  well 
remember  the  first  time  her  brother  came  home  with  that  peculiar  scent 
upon  his  breath.  She  was  too  innocent  to  know  what  it  was,  and 
asked  him.  He  flushed  crimson  at  the  question,  though  he  laughed  at 
her  ignorance.  “He  had  stopped  at  Jonas  Wyland’s  and  had  a glass  of 
something  good,”  he  said.  “Nothing  to  scare  you,  sis,”  he  added,  as 
she  felt  herself  turning  pale  and  caught  at  his  hand,  pleading,  “There  was 
no  alcohol  in  it,  was  there,  Godfrey?” 

That  was  a year  or  more  ago,  and  she  had  detected  the  same  taint 
on  his  breath  often  since,  only  stronger  and  accompanied  sometimes  by 
a strange  light  in  his  eyes,  and  sometimes  by  a little  irritation  in  his 
voice  and  manner.  She  had  come  to  dread  his  trips  to  the  city  and  his 
stops  at  the  home  of  his  old  chum  — a friend  he  had  made  when  he 
attended  the  academy,  the  last  year  of  his  father’s  life.  That  very 
morning,  after  her  brother  was  all  ready  to  depart  and  had  placed  the 
arbutus  for  her  mother  in  her  hands,  she  had  brought  the  nearly  banished 
clouds  back  to  his  brow  by  a reference  to  this  youth. 

“Let  Ches  go,”  she  had  said,  speaking  of  the  great  dog  that  was 
fawning  on  his  master,  pleading  to  go  with  him,  though  he  had  been 
bidden  to  return  to  the  porch  and  stay  there.  “I  always  feel  safer  for 
you  when  he’s  with  you.  Let  him  go.” 

“To  keep  me  from  harm?  What  nonsense!”  laughed  the  youth. 
“You  women  need  him  more  than  I do.  What  danger  can  possibly 
come  to  me?” 

“Who  knows?  One  can  never  be  sure  what  may  happen,  especially 
when ” The  girl  stopped  short  in  her  speech  and  flushed  crimson. 


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STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


“Oh,  say  on!”  cried  Godfrey.  “You  have  great  faith  in  me.  It’s 
likely  to  make  a hero  of  a fellow  to  be  suspected  and  watched  as  I am ! 
Ches  will  stay  at  home,  mind  that!  I’ve  never  been  in  a state  where  I 
couldn’t  take  care  of  myself,  and  don’t  expect  to  be.” 

Sally  was  much  distressed.  “You  know  I do  not  suspect  you  or 
doubt  your  courage,”  she  said.  “You’re  the  best  brother  in  the  world 
but  for  one  thing.  If  you’ll  promise  not  to  go  near  Jonas  Wyland  to-day, 
I’ll  be  satisfied.” 

“You’ll  have  to  be  satisfied  without  any  such  promise  from  me,”  was 
the  decided  reply.  “What’s  got  into  you  and  mother?  You  seem  to 
think  I am  unable  to  look  out  for  myself.  I tell  you,  all  this  talk  won’t 
wean  me  from  Jonas.  He’s  a nice  fellow  and  square.  He  doesn’t  make 
me  drink.  I drink  because  I want  to,  because  other  chaps  of  my  age 
do,  and  because  it  doesn’t  hurt  me.  When  it  hurts  me,  it  will  be  time 
enough  to  cry  out.” 

“It  has  hurt  you  already,  Godfrey.” 

“How?” 

“I  don’t  know.  I only  know  you’re  not  quite  yourself  after  it,  and 
I can  see  a difference  in  you  the  last  year.” 

“A  mighty  great  difference  when  neither  you  or  mother  can  define 
it !”  he  exclaimed  angrily.  “I  want  you  to  stop  this  talk ! I give  you 
notice  now  to  quit  it.  I’ll  not  stand  it  any  longer.  Mother’s  sick  and  I 
can’t  shut  her  up,  but  I won’t  have  you  at  me,  too.” 

He  was  driving  off  without  giving  her  a good-by  kiss,  but  she  ran 
after  him,  begging  him  to  stop.  “Oh,  Godfrey,  how  can  you  make  me 
feel  so  badly?”  she  panted,  when  he  drew  up  at  her  entreaty. 

“Then  don’t  lecture  me,”  he  replied.  “I  don’t  want  to  be  hard  on 
you,  sis,  but  I can’t  stand  everything.  There,  now,  don’t  cry.  I’ll 
promise  to  be  good,  I truly  will,  and  I’ll  have  that  mortgage  paid  off 
when  I get  back.  Give  me  a kiss  for  good  luck,  and  mind,  you’re  not 
to  allow  yourself  or  mother  any  but  the  happiest  thoughts  to-day,  for 
though  it  is  Friday,  it  is  Good  Friday,  and  must,  therefore,  be  luckv 
Friday.” 

He  sprang  into  the  wagon.  “Good-bye.  What!  You  here  again, 
Chcs?  No.  I won’t  take  you.  Go  home!”  He  snapped  the  whip  at  the 
great  shaggy  creature  as  he  drove  off,  and  Sally  put  out  her  hand  to  the- 

d©g. 

“Poor  Ches ! You  and  I have  to  stay  at  home  and  eat  our  hearts 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


233 


out,”  she  said.  But  Ches  was  not  listening;  he  was  looking  after  his 
master.  , 

“You  want  to  go?”  questioned  Sally.  “Well,  go;  only  keep  out  of 
sight.  Go ! I’ll  feel  better  if  you  follow  him.” 

The  day  proved  long  to  the  girl,  though  to  her  amazement,  it 
passed  quietly,  almost  cheerfully,  with  the  invalid.  She  wondered  at 
the  light  in  her  mother’s  eyes,  especially  when  night  settled  down  and 
her  brother  had  not  returned.  “He  has  been  detained,”  said  the  woman. 
“He  will  come  presently.”  But  hour  after  hour  loitered  along,  and  the 
youth  did  not  appear.  Sally  strained  her  ears  as  she  sat  at  the  window 
listening  for  the  echo  of  hoofs  on  the  road,  but  the  stillness  of  death 
prevailed. 

Her  mother  awoke  several  times,  and  each  time  the  daughter  shrank 
from  the  question,  “Has  he  come?”  Yet  after  each  negative  the  same 
reply  came  — sometimes  breathed  with  a gentle  sigh,  always  with  quiet 
confidence — “He  is  kept  for  a reason.  He  will  come.” 

The  first  streak  of  dawn  stained  the  east,  the  cocks  in  the  poultry- 
yard  crowed.  The  sun  burst  through  the  clouds  and  streamed  over  the 
weary  girl  whose  eyes  had  not  closed  night  long.  She  arose  and  went 
to  the  kitchen  to  prepare  her  mother’s  food.  A neighbor’s  boy  who 
helped  with  the  chores,  came  to  feed  the  stock  and  departed.  The 
creeping  hours  of  another  day  began.  It  was  still  young,  when  a farmer 
living  a few  miles  distant,  brought  Nell  Home.  He  had  stopped  her  in 
her  wild  career  past  his  place  during  the  night. 

“The  wagon  warn’t  much  hurt,”  he  said,  “jest  a wheel  off  an’  a 
shaft  broke,  an’  I found  the  grain  an’  shingles  all  right  a bit  further  up 
the  road.  But  there  wasn’t  hide  or  hair  o’  the  boy.  But  that’s  nothin’ 
queer,”  he  added,  looking  kindly  into  the  tense  face  of  the  girl.  “There’s 
folks  a-passin’  by  most  allays  on  that  road  an’  likely  somebody  has 
found  him  with  a sprained  ankle  or  suthin’  an’  carted  him  home.  He’ll 
turn  up  afore  long  and  you  kin  count  on  me  doin’  my  level  best  to 
find  him.” 

And  Sally  begged  him  to  speak  lower  lest  her  mother  wake  and  hear 
him,  thanked  him  for  his  kindness,  and  went  about  with  a deathly,  but 
controlled  face,  her  soul  heavy  with  the  agony  of  dread  beyond 
expression.  The  arbutus  in  the  invalid’s  hand  had  wilted,  but  she  V'ould 
not  part  with  it.  “I  must  have  it  when  Godfrey  comes,”  she  said.  “It 
is  the  harbinger  of  good  that  is  on  the  way,  which  is  coming  to  me, 


234 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


though  I am  not  strong  enough  to  go  out  and  meet  it  except  by  faith.” 
Sally  wondered  as  she  listened.  Was  her  mother’s  mind  shaken?  Was 
she  losing  her  reason? 

All  that  Godfrey  Brent  had  prophesied  for  that  Good  Friday  came 
to  pass.  The  beautiful  three-year-old  colt  proved  to  be  exactly  what 
Mr.  March  wanted,  and  Jonas  Wyland,  who  had  heard  of  this  gen- 
tleman’s need,  met  the  youth  at  Y and  introduced  him  as  he  had 

promised.  Jonas  also  accompanied  him  when  he  settled  for  the  mort- 
gage and  helped  him  load  the  grain  and  shingles  on  his  wagon.  Every- 
thing had  turned  out  as  anticipated,  and  Godfrey  Brent  was  ready  to 
start  for  home  in  time  to  reach  it  by  midnight.  He  had  refused  to 
drink  with  his  chum  at  their  meeting;  it  seemed  bearish  and  ill-man- 
nered to  refuse  him  again  at  their  parting,  especially  after  the  good 
turn  he  had  done  him.  So  the  youth  hitched  his  horse  and  went  with 
Jonas  to  take  a single  drink.  It  was  while  he  was  gone,  that  a big 
shaggy  dog  climbed  into  the  wagon  and  stretched  himself  beside  the 
bags  of  grain. 

Godfrey  could  never  tell  at  what  hour  he  left  the  saloon  or  in 
what  condition.  He  had  a faint  recollection  of  Jonas  unhitching  his 
horse  and  helping  him  into  the  wagon.  He  remembered  also  that  the 
sight  of  Ches  aroused  in  him  anew  the  anger  of  the  morning,  and  that 
he  took  the  whip  to  the  faithful  creature.  After  that  all  Avas  a blank 
until  he  was  awakened  from  what  seemed  sleep  by  a sort  of  jarring 
which  was  not  so  much  a sound  heard  by  his  ears  as  a sensation  felt 
throug'h  his  body.  He  opened  his  eyes  to  the  night  sky  and  felt  beneath 
him  the  sharp  steel  of  a railroad  track.  He  tried  to  lift  his  aching  limbs, 
only  to  fall  back  with  a groan  as  everything  swam  before  his  sight. 

He  lay  still  awhile  with  closed  eyes,  recovering  himself,  until  that 
jarring  — grown  more  pronounced  and  accompanied  now  by  sound  — 
again  forced  him  to  look  up.  To  his  horror,  the  great  red  eye  of  an 
engine  glared  at  him,  and  the  awful  sense  of  imminent  death  took  hold 
of  him.  In  an  agony  he  groped  about  for  a support  and  scrambled  to  his 
feet,  only  to  fall  again  in  a grovelling  heap.  What  could  be  the  matter 
with  him?  Was  he  drunk?  The  shock  of  this  possibility  pierced  him 
even  in  his  awftd  peril,  adding  to  his  misery.  Was  he  about  to  die?  and 
drunk?  A roar  was  in  his  ears,  the  iron  monster  was  almost  upon 
him.  With  an  agonized  cry  for  help,  he  lost  consciousness. 

What  restored  him  to  himself  again  he  did  not  know,  unless  it  was 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


235 


the  rough  tongue  of  the  four-footed  friend  who  could  not  be  driven 
away  from  him,  and  to  whom,  without  doubt,  he  owed  his  life.  It 
was  dawn,  and  as  he  saw  how  near  he  yet  lay  to  the  track,  he  clung  to 
the  neck  of  his  faithful  deliverer  with  tears.  Yet  his  bitterest  tears 
were  for  the  faith  he  had  lost  in  his  own  integrity.  He  had  been 
drunk,  he  — Godfrey  Brent,  drunk!  Strong  drink  had  harmed  him,  had 

brought  him  near  to  death  and . Suddenly  he  remembered  the  horse, 

the  wagon,  the  grain ! What  had  become  of  them  ? Had  he  driven 
across  the  tracks  in  drunken  imbecility?  Had  the  horse  been  killed? 
The  wagon  wrecked?  All  lost?  The  cancelled  mortgage!  Was  it  lost, 
too?  He  felt  in  his  inner  pocket  and  a fervent  “Thank  God!”  burst 
from  his  lips  as  he  found  it  there. 

He  did  not  get  up  immediately.  Remorse  and  memory  had  him  in 
their  grip  and  faithfully  reproduced  for  him  the  history  of  the  past 
year;  his  first  glass — -taken  almost  fearfully  — the  second,  — the  easy 
fashion  in  which  he  had  drifted  to  the  place  he  now  occupied.  Liquor 
had  harmed  him,  conquered  him ! His  lips  set.  It  should  never  con- 
quer him  again!  He  prayed  — the  big  boy,  conscious  of  his  sin  and  his 
weakness  — prayed  to  his  mother’s'  God,  as  he  lay  there  under  the  sun, 
the  first  real  prayer  of  his  life,  and  it  was  for  deliverance,  for  strength,  for 
grace  to  be  the  true  man  his  mother  and  his  sister  longed  to  see  him. 
With  the  prayer  came  the  realization  of  his  mother’s  and  sister’s  prob- 
able anxiety  for  him.  He  started  up.  He  must  get  to  them ! 

It  took  him  hours  to  reach  home,  but  should  Godfrey  Brent  live  to 
be  a thousand  years  old,  he  will  never  forget  the  cry  of  joy  which  greeted 
his  ears,  as  his  sister  — standing  at  the  gate,  peering  down  the  road  — 
caught  sight  of  his  approach.  She  was  at  his  side  in  a second,  her  arms 
about  him. 

“You  are  alive ! you  are  alive !”  was  her  rapturous  cry. 

“I  am  alive,”  he  answered,  brokenly,  “but  I have  been  dead,  sis ; 
worse  than  dead !” 

His  mother  was  asleep,  and  as  the  youth  washed  and  as  he  ate,  he 
told  the  story  of  the  hours  he  had  been  gone  — as  far  as  he  knew  it  — to 
the  glad-faced  girl  who  sat  beside  him.  He  was  so  worn  from  exhaustion 
and  excitement  that  she  insisted  he  should  go  to  bed  as  soon  as  his 
hunger  was  appeased.  “Mother  will  be  content  to  know  you  are  safely 
home,”  she  said,  “and  I want  to  find  and  feed  Ches.” 

The  Easter  sun  was  shining  into  his  room  and  across  his  bed,  when 


236 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


Godfrey  awoke  the  next  morning,  a sense  of  peace  in  his  heart  such  as 
he  had  never  known.  He  answered  gayly  to  the  gentle  tap  on  the 
door,  “Yes,  sweetheart.” 

“Then  you  are  awake?” 

“Awake  and  glad,  sis.” 

“Mother  is  impatient  to  see  you.  She  clings  to  that  bit  of  arbutus 
still.” 

“Bless  her ! I’ll  be  down  in  a moment.” 

The  invalid  looked  up  eagerly  as  the  chamber  door  opened.  The 
man  who  advanced  to  her  bedside  was  not  the  boy  of  two  days  ago, 
nor  yet  the  remorseful  youth  of  a few  hours  since.  He  was  radiant  with 
a new-born  faith  and  energy. 

“Mother,”  he  said,  as  he  stooped  and  pressed  his  lips  to  hers, 
“Little  mother!” 

“My  son,”  she  quavered,  holding  the  faded  arbutus  toward  him. 
“It  is  Easter  Sunday.” 

“Yes,”  he  cried,  “my  Easter,  mother!  I am  risen  from  the  dead! 
For,” — his  voice  sank  to  a tender  whisper  and'  Sally,  in  the  doorway, 
caught  a rapturous  breath,  — “for  I have  been  dead  and  am  alive  again 
— alive  forevermore!” — Mrs.  S.  R.  Graham  Clark  in  The  Union  Signal. 

AUNT  LIZZIE’S  PRAYER  ANSWERED. 

Coming  home  one  evening,  she  found  a poor,  forlorn  girl  waiting 
to  see  her.  She  had  no  shelter  fit  to  call  home,  and  was  clothed  in  rags. 

As  she  told  of  her  misery,  she  lifted  her  tattered  skirts  and  showed 
her  feet,  which  were  purple  with  cold,  and  incased  in  a pair  of  old,  worn- 
out  shoes. 

Aunt  Lizzie  had  on  the  clothes-horse  a pair  of  warm,  woolen 
stockings.  “Here,”  she  said,  “put  these  on,  you  poor  child.”  A lady 
present  remonstrated  with  her : “What  are  you  doing,  that  is  the  only 
pair  you  have  except  those  you  are  wearing?  You  have  given  away  all 
the  rest.”  “Never  mind,”  Aunt  Lizzie  answered,  “she  needs  them 
more  than  1.  God  will  provide.” 

The  poor  girl  went  away  warmed  and  fed.  The  next  afternoon 
Aunt  Lizzie  was  invited  out  to  tea.  The  hostess  was  showing  her  some 
new  clothing  she  had  been  buying.  In  the  bureau  drawer  near  one  end 
was  a bundle  of  knit  woolen  stockings. 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


237 


The  lady  said,  “Take  them ; they  were  knit  by  a relative  in  the 
country  and  sent  me,  but  I never  wear  them.”  Thus  she  had  returned 
to  her  thrible  what  she  gave  away.  Her  every  act  in  life  was  to  forget 
self,  visit  the  poor  and  sick,  pay  the  rent,  strip  herself  of  clothing, 
and  supply  their  wants. 

“In  all  my  life,”  she  wrote  in  her  diary,  “I  cannot  recall  where 
I have  made  a gift  I ever  regretted;  it  invariably  did  some  great  good.” 

To  return  to  the  young  girl  she  gave  the  stockings  to.  She  took 
her  name  and  address,  and  in  a few  days  she  was  in  the  neighborhood 
and  found  the  number. 

The  house  was  weather-beaten,  windows  broken  out,  and  everything 
around  dilapidated.  She  knocked  at  the  door,  the  young  girl  opened  it, 
and  Aunt  Lizzie  stepped  in.  On  a pallet  of  straw,  in  one  corner,  lay  the 
drunken  father. 

Pale  and  emaciated,  on  a lounge  covered  with  rags,  lay  the  forlorn 
mother.  Aunt  Lizzie’s  heart  was  touched  with  pity.  She  went  to  the 
woman  and  speaking  kindly  to  her,  said : “Why  do  you  lie  here  in  dis- 
tress when  this  world  is  rolling  in  wealth?”  She  faintly  said:  “My 
people  have  been  good  to  me  in  years  past,  but  because  I would  not  leave 
my  husband,  they  have  disowned  us  all.” 

“My  poor  little  Laura,  I could  bear  all  this  trouble  better  if  it  was 
not  for  her.  Oh,  what  shall  I do?”  “I  will  do  all  I can  for  you,”  replied 
Aunt  Lizzie,  “but  before  I go  I want  your  husband  to  arouse  himself  out 
of  that  drunken  stupor;  I want  to  pray  for  him.”  Laura  ran  to  him  and 
said : “Papa,  Aunt  Lizzie  is  here.”  His  bloated  face  and  sunken  eyes 
peered  out  from  the  darkened  corner:  “Where  is  she?  Has  she  got 
whiskey  for  me?  I must  have  more  whiskey,  and  they  will  not  give 
me  any  more  at  the  saloon.” 

Aunt  Lizzie  stepped  forward  to  where  he  lay:  “Get  up,”  she  said. 
He  screamed:  “I  want  whiskey.”  She  saw  at  a glance  she  could  do 
nothing  with  him  by  talking,  so  she  was  determined  to  pray  for  him. 
She  knelt  beside  him  and  implored  God  to  open  his  blind  eyes  and 
restore  him  to  manhood  and  repentance. 

She  turned  to  the  poor,  forlorn  wife,  and'  said:  “Will  you  go  to 
the  hospital  till  you  get  better?”  “Oh,  yes,  but  my  sweet  child  — my 
little  Laura?” 

“I  will  take  care  of  her,”  said  Aunt  Lizzie.  She  immediately  made 
arrangements  for  a patient  at  the  hospital,  and  had  Mrs.  Goldberg  sent 


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STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


there  at  her  expense.  She  took  Laura’s  grimy  little  hand  in  hers  and 
went  to  the  church  store-room,  where  the  ladies  were  sorting  clothing, 
and  tying  it  up  in  bundles. 

“Aunt  Lizzie,”  said  one  of  the  ladies,  “in  yonder  box  is  everything 
you  will  need  for  the  young  girl’s  outfit.”  She  selected  shoes  and 
stockings,  under  clothing  and  outer  garments,  and  hastened  with  them 
and  the  child  into  the  toilet  room. 

When  Aunt  Lizzie  and  Laura  Goldberg  emerged  from  the  bath 
room,  no  one  would  have  known  the  child.  Aunt  Lizzie  took  her  to  a 
childless  couple,  who  gladly  gave  her  a home.  Mrs.  Goldberg,  through 
Aunt  Lizzie’s  prayers,  was  converted,  and  immersed,  and  in  a few  days 
joined  that  happy  throng  in  the  heayenly  kingdom. 

No  trace  of  Laura’s  father  could  be  found,  and  it  was  supposed  he 
must  have  perished  in  the  gutter,  as  the  weather  was  very  cold  and 
damp. 

Aunt  Lizzie  diligently  searched  for  him,  but  found  him  not.  After 
a year  had  passed  by,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lyman  Howard  adopted  Laura  and 
gave  her  their  honored  name. 

These  people  were  not  Baptists,  but  good  Christians.  Laura,  under 
Aunt  Lizzie’s  teachings,  became  a shining  light  in  the  church  and  Sun- 
day school.  When  she  was  about  eighteen  years  of  age,  after  her 
graduation  from  the  high  school,  she  and  her  foster  parents  were  taking 
a trip  to  Europe.  When  in  London,  England,  they  stopped  into  a cafe, 
where  but  one  table,  seats  for  four,  were  unoccupied.  They  immediately 
sat  down  and  ordered  their  dinner. 

Presently  a gentleman  stepped  in,  tall  and  handsome,  and  about 
forty  years  of  age,  and  asked  if  the  company  had  any  objections  if  he 
occupied  the  vacant  seat.  Mr.  Howard  said : “W e will  be  glad  of 
your  company.”  Laura  looked  up  into  the  man’s  face  and  cried  out; 
“Papa,  papa.” 

“Is  this  my  little  girl  Laura,  that  I have  not  seen  for  eight  long 
years?  Need  I tell  you,  my  child,  not  one  drop  of  liquor  has  touched 
my  lips  since  that  day  you  and  your  mother  were  taken  from  me?  Aunt 
Lizzie’s  prayer  restored  me  to  my  manhood,  and  God  in  His  wisdom 
snatched  from  my  arms  my  wife  and  child.  After  you  were  gone,  I 
got  up  and  went  to  the  docks  and  secured  work.  I remained  there 
three  months  and  when  I drew  my  pay,  clothed  myself  respectably.  I 
then  went  in  search  for  my  wife  and  child.  I learned  your  mother  died 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


239 


in  the  hospital,  and  you  were  given  by  Aunt  Lizzie  to  Mr.  ar^d  Mrs. 
Howard ; I found  you  were  in  good  hands.  I left  Chicago,  working  my 
way  the  best  I could  until  I reached  New  York,  with  Aunt  Lizzie’s 
prayer  ever  ringing  in  my  ears.  I secured  a position  on  a man-of-war  as 
head  cook.  I had  not  been  with  them  three  weeks  until  I enlisted  for 
three  years.  Our  destination  was  to  cruise  around  the  East  India 
islands,  and  when  my  time  expired,  I took  up  the  enlightenment  of  those 
poor  deluded  natives.  I established  schools,  and  after  a time,  Sunday 
schools,  and  taught  them  as  Aunt  Lizzie  taught  me,  the  way  to  Christ. 
The  consequences  were : I left  two  flourishing  churches,  ten  day  schools 
and  two  Sunday  schools.  I have  but  recently  returned  to  England,  my 
native  land,  where  my  beloved  parents  still  live.  I would  not  come  to 
them  until  I was  sure  I could  withstand  every  temptation,  and  by  the 
grace  of  God,  I know  I can,  as  He  says  in  His  sacred  word : ‘But  seek 
ye  first  the  kingdom  of  God  and  His  righteousness,  and  all  these  things 
shall  be  added  unto  you.’  I have  told  my  parents  of  my  marriage  and 
your  birth,  and  your  mother’s  death.  They  insisted  I go  to  America, 
search  for  you  and  bring  you  to  them.  I was  here  for  that  purpose, 
but  this  opportune  meeting  has  changed  my  plans.  Will  you  all  go  with 
me  to  their  home  on  the  river  Thames,  five  miles  from  Windsor 
Castle?”  The  party  took  passage  on  a passenger  steamer  that  glided 
down  that  beautiful  river.  Five  miles  below  London  they  observed 
Greenwich,  famous  for  its  naval  hospital  for  infirm  seamen,  and  its 
observatory  from  which  longitude  is  reckoned.  They  passed  by  mag- 
nificent castles,  priories  and  abbeys,  and  in  the  distance  they  saw. 
Windsor  Castle,  for  many  centuries  the  chief  residence  of  English 
sovereigns.  In  the  year  of  1344  Edward  the  Third  designed  the  new 
Tower  for  his  Knights  of  the  Garter. 

“When  looking  from  the  tower,”  explained  Mr.  Goldberg,  “twelve 
counties  are  within  the  range  of  vision.  In  St.  George’s  Chapel  rests 
the  bodies  of  Henry  the  Eighth,  Edward  the  Fourth,  Charles  the  First, 
George  the  Third,  etc.  Queen  Victoria,  during  her  lifetime,  fitted  up 
another  part  and  called  it  Prince  Albert’s  Chapel.”  The  time  passed 
so  quickly  and  pleasantly,  that  Laura  was  surprised  when  the  boat 
whistled  at  their  landing  place. 

A carriage  was  in  waiting  for  them,  as  Mr.  Goldberg  had  dis- 
patched to  his  parents  they  were  coming.  A lovely  drive  of  half  an 
hour  brought  them  to  a neat  and  commodious  farm-house  on  the  banks 


240 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


of  the  river  Thames,  surrounded  by  barns  and  out-houses.  They  alighted 
and  were  met  by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Goldberg,  a fine  appearing  couple,  about 
sixty-five  years  of  age. 

When  introduced  to  Laura,  they  gave  her  a royal  welcome  to  her 
ancestral  home,  which,  until  that  day,  she  had  never  heard  of.  They  all 
enjoyed  their  visit  sight-seeing.  Two  Sundays  they  went  into  London 
and  attended  services  in  Rev.  Mr.  Spurgeon’s  tabernacle,  it  having  a 
seating  capacity  of  six  thousand  people. 

He  received  into  his  church,  while  living,  13,000  persons,  and 
erected  thirty-six  chapels  in  different  parts  of  London.  Rev.  Mr.  Spur- 
geon was  one  of  the  most  talented  Baptist  preachers  of  the  past  cen- 
tury. Mr.  and  Mrs.  Howard  decided  they  had  stayed  as  long  as  they 
could  in  England,  as  they  wished  to  visit  other  countries ; but  how  could 
they  leave  their  darling  behind?  Laura  put  her  arms  around  them  and 
said:  “My  more  than  mother,  my  more  than  father,  to  you  I owe  all 
I am,  as  you  took  me  from  the  mud  and  mire  of  Chicago  slums.  You 
dressed  and  fed  me  well,  you  educated  me,  you  and  Aunt  Lizzie  have 
made  me  what  I am,  and  not  only  that,  you  adopted  me,  and  made  me 
by  so  doing,  your  sole  heir.  Do  you  think  I will  forsake  you?  No, 
never,  I shall  be  your  own  Laura  just  the  same.  I will  stay  part  of 
the  time  with  papa  and  my  grandparents,  and  part  of  the  time  with  you 
in  Chicago.  I have  made  a nice  visit  here ; now  I am  ready  to  accom- 
pany you  in  a tour  of  Europe.”  So  it  was  decided,  and  in  a few  days 
they  set  sail  across  the  English  channel  and  made  an  extended  trip 
across  the  continent. 

In  two  months  they  returned  to  Laura’s  home  in  England,  and 
after  a stay  of  a few  days,  they  returned  to  America,  accompanied  by 
Mr.  Erank  Goldberg,  as  he  was  determined  to  see  Aunt  Lizzie  and 
thank  her  personally  for  what  she  had  done  for  himself  and  family. 
Laura  had  written  Aunt  Lizzie,  informing  her  of  how  she  so  mysteriously 
found  her  reformed  father,  and  the  day  they  would  arrive  in  Chicago. 

Aunt  Lizzie  had  a sumptuous  meal  prepared,  but  she  had  a turkey 
roasted  instead  of  the  fatted  calf.  When  they  reached  the  house.  Mr. 
Goldberg  clasped  Aunt  Lizzie’s  hand  and  said:  “I  thank  you  again,  and 
again,  for  what  you  have  done  for  me  and  mine.  Not  one  drop  of  liquor 
will  ever  pass  through  my  lips  again ; and  your  prayers  saved  me  when 
I was  on  fhe  brink  of  ruin.” 

They  all  did  full  justice  to  Aunt  Lizzie’s  dinner,  after  which  Laura 


PWIGHT  L.  MOODY 

Author  of  some  of  the  stories  and  incidents  in  this  volume. 


T.  DEWITT  TALMADGE  GREAT  TEMPERANCE  MEETING 
'I’hiH  (Jrcat  American  Preacher  and  Lecturer  made  a tremendous  liglit  against  intemperance  and  his  wonderful  Oratory, 
drew  immense  throngs  to  his  meetings. 


241 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


Goldberg-Howard  returned  to  England  with  her  father.  For  several 
years  Laura  frequently  returned  to  the  land  of  her  birth  to  visit  her 
foster  parents  and  Aunt  Lizzie. — The  World  Review-Herald. 

WHY  I DESTROYED  THE  CARD. 

You  ask  me  why  I stamped  that  card  in  the  mud?  Well,  it’s  a sad 
story,  but  as  you  seem  interested,  I will  endeavor  to  tell  it  to  you. 

Let  me  see,  said  Mrs.  Marshall,  wiping  her  eyes ; it  is  just  twenty 
years  ago  to-day  since  John  and  I first  met.  Ah,  I remember  that 
childish  face  and  laughing  eyes  as  though  it  were  but  yesterday,  and 
it  hardly  seems  possible  that  I have  lived  through  such  sorrow  as  these 
years  have  brought  me.  Yes,  I repeat  it,  it  is  a sad  story. 

I was  spending  the  summer  at  the  little  village  of  W . There 

were  a great  many  young  people  there  from  different  cities.  One  after- 
noon, as  things  were  rather  dull,  someone  proposed  a game  of  poker.  I 
noticed  the  expression  of  John’s  face  change  in  an  instant,  and  when  I 
invited  him  to  play,  he  politely  declined  to  do  so. 

I had  been  reared,  like  almost  all  of  the  girls  there,  to  indulge  in 
dancing,  card-playing,  and  theatre-going,  without  thinking,  as  St.  Paul 
did,  of  the  “weak  brother,”  whom  I might  cause  to  stumble. 

But  by  and  by,  as  the  game  progressed,  John  grew  more  restless, 
and  finally  rose  to  leave.  I asked  him  to  stay,  at  the  same  time  remind- 
ing him  of  his  promise  to  go  boating  with  me  that  evening. 

He  stayed,  and  while  we  were  alone  on  the  water,  I mentioned  the 
cards.  I had  seen  his  dislike  for  them  and  was  determined  that  he 
should  play,  as  many  of  the  girls  had  given  him  nicknames  and  laughed 
at  him  in  my  presence.  I am  not  trying  to  excuse  myself,  but  you  know, 
Maggie,  very  few  of  us  can  bear  to  see  the  object  of  our  love  ridiculed. 
I see  now  how  foolish  I was  to  notice  it. 

But  that  night  when  John  told  me  he  didn’t  care  to  learn  to  play 
cards  and  was  sorry  that  I knew,  I told  him  he  was  very  foolish  and 
knew  little  of  the  ways  of  the  world.  There  can  be  no  harm  in  these 
little  amusements,  I said,  and  if  you  wish  me  to  give  up  all  these  things 
for  you.  I’ll  never  do  it.  (Oh,  was  he  not  dearer  than  all  this  to  me? 
But  I knew  he  loved  me  and  would  do  anything  for  my  sake ; and  how 
could  I marry  a “goose,”  as  the  girls  had  called  him  ?)  And  I gave  him 
back  the  ring  he  had  given  me.  As  I expected,  when  he  thought  I was 
in  earnest,  he  yielded. 


242 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


“O  Ethel,”  said  he,  know  I love  you  better  than  life,  and 

cannot  bear  this  separation.  Yes,  I’ll  go  to  the  theatre  with  you,  and  — 
and  play  cards  with  you,  too,  if  you  will  teach  me  how.  I suppose,  as 
you  say,  there  isn’t  really  any  harm  in  it.” 

You  see,  Maggie,  he  was  trying  to  be  a Christian,  but  he  was  not 
“strong  in  the  Lord” — he  had  not  forsaken  all  to  follow  Christ.  Oh, 
if  he  had  only  trusted  Christ  to  help  him  overcome  this  temptation,  he 
might  have  saved  us  both  many  years  of  sorrow  and  taught  me  the 
nobler  living. 

The  next  day  he  came  for  his  first  lesson.  I found  him  an  apt  pupil. 
He  soon  learned  to  play  better  than  the  best  players  at  the  hotel,  and 
I noticed  with  some  uneasiness  that  it  was  his  greatest  delight  to  play. 
But  as  more  visitors  came  to  the  hotel,  and  my  time  was  spent  mostly  in 
pleasure  seeking,  I had  little  time  to  think  of  this.  But  before  the  close 
of  the  season  he  spent  more  time  at  the  card  table  and  in  the  ball  room 
than  ever  I could  approve  of.  But  our  marriage  was  to  be  celebrated 
the  first  of  October,  and  I hoped  after  that  he  would  be  different;  but 
in  this  I was  disappointed. 

The  first  few  months  all  was  well.  He  spent  his  evenings  at  home, 
and  we  were  very  happy.  However,  we  still  kept  our  card  tables.  John 
could  not  think  of  giving  them  up.  Our  friends  were  invited  to  join 
in  the  games  with  us,  and  the  social  glass  would  be  passed,  until  at  last 
it  seemed  as  if  John  could  not  do  without  it. 

By  and  by  he  spent  so  much  of  the  time  at  the  club  that  he  was 
hardly  ever  at  home,  and  when  I complained,  he  replied,  “O,  there  is  no 
harm  in  card  playing,  dear.” 

After  a while  we  gave  up  the  cards  and  wine.  I didn’t  care  what 
the  girls  said  now.  We  never  had  any  socials  at  home  now,  and  I spent 
most  of  my  evenings  alone. 

One  evening  John  came  home  and  told  me  we  must  give  up  our 
beautiful  home.  He  had  lost  so  much  for  the  last  month ; but  I must 
not  ask  any  questions;  he  had  rather  not  talk  about  it  just  then.  “Just 
be  patient,”  said  he,  “and  I will  tell  you  all  about  it ; we  can  get  our 
home  back  in  a short  time.” 

We  left  there  and  went  to  a smaller  house,  and  discharged  all  of 
our  servants ; but  this  was  not  so  hard  to  bear  as  the  thought  that  my 
husband  could  not  confide  in  me.  There  was  some  improvement  in  him 
after  this;  he  stayed  at  home  more,  and  as  Inez  and  Freddie  grew  older, 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


243 


I thought  he  would  surely  give  up  his  old  ways,  for  he/  loved  the 
children  dearly. 

His  old  friends,  however,  could  not  let  him  go  this  way.  They 
kept  him  at  the  bar-room  as  much  as  possible,  and  he  drank  more  than 
ever.  But  I could  not  complain,  for  he  kept  repeating  to  me  those  hate- 
ful words,  “There  is  no  harm  in  it.”  Oh,  have  I not  been  paid  for  my 
folly ! 

It  was  not  long  until  he  was  forced  to  tell  what  he  had  kept  back  — 
he  had  lost  our  house  gambling,  and  in  trying  to  get  it  back,  had  lost 
everything. 

We  then  moved  to  this  alley,  and  I take  sewing  to  support  myself 
and  children.  In  my  sorrow  I have  gone  to  the  Lord  and  have  obtained 
pardon,  and  am  trying  to  bear  patiently  with  my  husband,  hoping  that 
some  day  he  will  learn  his  lesson  and  come  back  to  God  and  receive 
pardon. 

I teach  my  children  to  abhor  all  intoxicating  drink.  They,  knowing 
the  sad  story  of  my  life,  could  hardly  do  otherwise ; and  they  have  been 
converted  and  are  going  to  be  active  temperance  workers,  and  I trust 
their  first  work  will  be  to  reform  their  father. 

Do  you  wonder  that  I destroyed  that  card  ? Let  us  resolve  to  do 
what  we  can  to  suppress  these  evils  that  are  blighting  our  land. — Miss 
Eva  Carpenter  in  Way  of  Faith. 

UNROLLING  THE  SPOOL. 

John  Lee  had  become  unsteady.  He  had  found  the  acquaintance  of 
some  fast  young  men,  and  every  time  he  went  down  street,  some  one 
would  ask  him  to  drink,  and  then  he  would  have  to  treat,  and  the 
habit  of  drinking  so  grew  on  him  that  he  was  fast  becoming  a drunkard. 
A good  many  nights,  while  he  was  sleeping  off  the  effects  of  liquor  he 
had  drunk,  his  poor  mother  was  awake,  weeping  and  praying  for  him. 
Sometimes  she  would  talk  to  him,  and  he  would  promise  to  do  better, 
but  he  always  broke  his  promise.  Pretty  Mary,  who  had  promised  to 
become  his  wife  as  soon  as  they  could  save  enough  money  to  go  to 
housekeeping,  noticed  a change  in  him,  and  mistrusted  that  all  was  not 
right.  But  she  kept  hoping  for  the  best,  and  saving  her  money  to  buy 
the  furniture  for  the  happy  home  she  hoped  soon  to  enjoy. 

One  night  John  was  brought  home  drunk;  so  drunk  that  the  next 


1 


244  STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


day  he  was  sick  and  heartily  ashamed  of  himself.  His  mother  talked  to 
him  long  and  tearfully.  She  told  him  of  Mary’s  love  and  patience  and 
faith  in  him,  and  ended  by  saying,  “Now,  John,  if  you  will  sign  the 
pledge  and  keep  it,  at  the  end  of  six  months  I will  make  you  a present  of 
fifty  dollars  toward  setting  up  housekeeping.  I know  I can  get  it  some- 
how.” 

John  laughed  and  said : “All  right,  mother.  I’ll  do  it,  and  hold  you 
to  your  promise.”  So  John  signed  the  pledge,  and  his  mother  began 
to  save.  It  required  close  calculation  to  lay  up  several  shillings  a week; 
but  she  now  trimmed  her  old  bonnet,  and  turned  her  old  dress,  and 
mended  her  shoes,  and  patched  her  aprons  and  drank  her  tea  weaker, 
and  gave  up  drinking  coffee,  and  ate  the  tiniest  bit  of  meat,  and  in  one 
self-denying  way  and  another  the  little  pile  of  savings  slowly  grew. 

John’s  appearance  rapidly  improved.  He  walked  more  briskly  and 
stood  erect;  his  eyes  grew  bright,  his  breath  became  sweet,  his  temper 
cheerful,  and  Mary  thought  him  smarter  and  handsomer  every-  day. 
Sometimes  he  peeped  into  the  cracked  teapot  which  held  his  mother’s 
savings,  when  his  eyes  would  twinkle,  and  a queer  smile  would  curve 
his  lips. 

He  said  to  a friend,  “It  made  me  just  ashamed  when  my  dear 
mother  offered  to  give  me  fifty  dollars  if  I would  give  up  drinking; 
and  I made  up  my  mind  that  I would  be  even  with  her.  Says  I to 
myself,  ‘If  you  can  save  fifty,  I can  save  a hundred.’  So  I gave  up 
smoking  and  bought  me  a tin  savings  bank,  and  ever)^  day  I would  drop 
in  about  what  I thought  my  tobacco  and  beer  would  cost  me.  The 
day  my  six  months  were  up,  I emptied  my  savings  bank;  and  would 
you  believe  it,  there  was  over  a hundred  dollars  in  it ! W ell,  I took  it  to 
the  bank  and  got  one  hundred  new  dollar  notes,  and  then  I got  a spool 
and  pinned  the  notes  together  and  wound  them  around  the  spool,  and 
then  I ran  a stick  through  the  spool,  so  that  the  spool  would  turn  around 
on  the  stick.  I tucked  it  into  my  pocket  and  went  around  to  see  Mary, 
and  invited  her  over  to  mother’s  to  supper.  After  supper,  says  I,  ‘mother, 
do  you  know  the  six  months  are  up  to-day?’  Says  she,  ‘Yes,  John,  and  I 
have  fifty  dollars  for  you.’  And  she  got  up  and  handed  me  the  money. 
‘Thank  you ; it  will  be  quite  a help  to  us  about  housekeeping.  IMother, 
will  you  please  remain  standing,  I have  a little  present  for  you  — some 
tobacco,’  said  I ; and  I took  out  the  roll  of  notes  and  had  her  take  hold 
of  the  end  of  the  one  on  the  outside,  and  I held  on  to  the  stick  in  the 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


245 


spool  and  walked  backward.  She  kept  pulling  until  we  reached  the 
end,  and  by  that  time  she  was  crying  and  had  to  sit  down. 

“Well,  we  had  a jolly  time,  you’d  better  believe,  and  the  next  week 
Mary  and  I were  married,  and  I have  not  drank  a drop  of  liquor  since. 
Then  we  commenced  to  go  to  a place  of  worship,  and  the  Lord  con- 
verted us,  and  now  we  have  the  neatest,  happiest  little  home  you  ever 
saw.  Come  down  and  see  us,  won’t  you?” — Kind  Words. 

THE  LAWYER’S  STORY. 

The  young  men  had  made  great  preparations  for  their  fishing  trip 
into  the  Indian  Territory,  and  their  disappointment  was  deep,  when  on 
the  very  morning  they  were  to  start,  the  lawyer,  whom  they  all  liked, 
told  them  he  could  not  go.  To  make  the  matter  worse,  his  explanations 
were  very  lame  and  unsatisfactory ; it  was  evident  that  he  had  given  up 
the  trip  for  some  reason  which  he  hesitated  to  name. 

As  a last  resort,  the  others  went  in  a body  — six  of  them  — to  his 
office,  and  demanded  that  he  tell  them  exactly  why  he  had  deserted, 
when  he  had  been  most  enthusiastic  in  planning  the  outing. 

“If  you’re  really  to  understand  it,”  he  said,  “I  shall  have  to  begin 
with  my  own  boyhood.  My  father,  the  best  father,  I think,  that  a boy 
ever  had,  always  showed  me  a tenderness  which,  even  as  a child,  I 
knew  was  somehow  different  from  the  love  which  my  playmates  had 
from  their  parents.  It  was  not  until  I was,  perhaps,  fourteen  years  old 
that  he  told  me  why  this  was  so. 

“Although  he  himself  lived  a most  exemplary  life,  his  father,  his 
father’s  father  and  two  of  his  uncles  had  been  drunkards.  The  taste  for 
liquor  he  believed  to  be  hereditary  in  our  family,  and  in  me  he  had 
recognized  many  of  the  traits  he  himself  possessed,  and  which  had  made 
his  own  life  a long  fight  against  the  habit  of  drink.  He  pointed  out 
the  danger  that  lay  before  me,  and  begged  me  to  give  him  my  promise 
never,  under  any  circumstances,  to  touch  liquor.  Tt  is  your  only  safety,’ 
he  said.  ‘Unless  you  make  this  resolution,  and  have  the  strength  to  keep 
it,  the  odds  will  be  fatally  against  you,  for,  like  myself,  you  are  easily 
influenced  by  others.  If  i thought  that  to-morrow  you  were  to  take  your 
first  drink,  I should  pray  to  God  that  you  might  die  to-day.’ 

“Of  course  I promised.  He  had  never  talked  to  me  in  that  way 
before,  and,  of  course,  it  made  an  impression  on  me.  I was  frightened. 


246 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


and  for  several  years  I kept  my  promise.  Then  I went  with  some  other 
young  fellows  on  an  all-day  fishing-trip.  While  we  were  eating  our 
luncheon,  one  of  our  number,  a boy  whom  we  all  admired,  took  a 
bottle  of  whisky  from  his  pocket,  drank  from  it,  and  passed  it  to  his 
next  neighbor.  The  bottle  went  around  the  circle,  for  no  one  dared 
refuse  to  follow  George  Reit’s  lead.  When  it  came  to  me,  I tried  to 
pass  it  on  without  drinking,  but  the  others  began  to  tease  and  ridicule 
me,  until  from  sheer  cowardice  I took  a drink.  A second  and  a third 
followed,  and  I began  to  realize  that  I liked  the  stuff,  and  wanted  more 
of  it.  My  father’ll  warning  flashed  across  my  mind : 

“ Tf  you  take  one  drink,  you  may  be  forever  lost !’ 

“The  rest  of  the  day  passed  wretchedly  enough,  and  I was  glad 
when  it  was  time  to  start  for  home.  When  I reached  the  house,  I found 
that  my  father,  whom  *I  had  left  in  good  health  in  the  morning,  was 
lying  at  the  point  of  death.  He  had  had  a sudden  attack  of  heart-disease. 
They  told  me  he  was  very  anxious  to  see  me  alone,  and  with  a breaking 
heart  I entered  his  room. 

“He  could  not  move  and  could  hardly  speak,  but  as  I took  his  hand 
and  bowed  my  head  upon  it,  crying,  he  smiled  tenderly  and  lovingly  to 
me.  When  I grew  calmer,  he  spoke,  although  the  effort  was  pitiful  to 
witness : 

“‘Be  strong  — mother’s  sake  — my  sake  — kiss  me.’ 

“As  I bent  down  to  kiss  him,  he  noticed  the  odor  of  liquor  in  my 
breath.  I shall  never  forget  that  look  of  agony,  of  despair,  in  his  eyes. 

“‘My  poor  — lost  — boy!”  he  groaned;  and  these  were  his  last 
words. 

“Since  that  day,  God  helping  me,  I have  never  touched  a drop  of 
liquor.  But  I know  miy  Aveakness.  I don’t  dare  to  expose  myself  to 
temptation,  and  I never  knoAvingly  go  where  liquor  is  to  be  used.  This 
morning,  while  the  provision  wagon  was  being  loaded,  I saw  that  some 
one  had  sent  along  a case  of  whisky.  Forgive  me,  boys ; I’m  not  preach- 
ing nor  finding  fault  with  you,  but  you  see  now  wh}^  I can’t  go.” 

“You  can  go  and  you  shall  go,”  spoke  up  the  judge,  who  had  pro- 
vided the  case  of  liquor,  “for  the  whisky  is  going  to  stay  here.”  So  the 
lawyer  went,  and  a jollier,  happier  outing  none  of  the  men  ever  had. — 
Selected  by  The  Bethel  Record. 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


247 


WHAT  ONE  BOY  DID. 

They  were  just  sitting  down  to  the  table,  twelve  boys,  their  faces 
bright,  their  eyes  sparkling  with  the  anticipation  of  the  dinner  that  was 
before  them.  It  was  Clifford  Ray’s  birthday,  and  his  mother  had  said 
he  might  invite  eleven  of  his  friends  to  a dinner  party. 

Clifford  was  an  only  child  and  an  only  grandchild  and,  strange  as 
it  may  seem,  he  was  blessed  with  three  grandmothers.  The  way  he 
came  to  have  more  than  his  share  of  grandmothers,  was  that  his  mother 
had  married  again,  so  there  was  her  mother,  his  father’s  mother,  and 
his  stepfather’s  mother;  stranger  yet,  they  lived  together,  to  all  appear- 
ances in  peace  and  concord,  and  vied  wifek  each  other  in  petting  and 
spoiling  Master  Clifford. 

The  boys  lost  no  time  in  starting  on  the  good  things,  and  they  ate 
as  only  healthy,  growing  boys  can  eat.  They  did  not  talk  much  at  first, 
they  were  too  busy  for  that;  but  they  enjoyed  themselves  thoroughly, 
which  made  Mrs.  Ray  and  the  three  kind  old  grandmothers  who  waited 
on  them,  beam  with  pleasure. 

After  they  had  got  fairly  started,  Mrs.  Ray  unlocked  the  door  of  a 
little  cupboard,  built  in  the  wall,  and  said  smilingly,  “Now,  boys!  I’m 
going  to  give  you  your  choice  of  some  very  fine  wine.  I have  all  kinds 
here,  you  can  take  your  choice,  in  honor  of  Clifford’s  birthday.” 

“Oh,  that’s  fine,  mother!”  exclaimed  Clifford.  “Come,  boys,  what 
kind  will  you  have?” 

No  one  answered,  so  Mrs.  Ray  turned  to  the  boy  at  the  head  of 
the  table,  George  Karner,  the  biggest  of  the  twelve,  and  the  most 
popular;  George  usually  took  the  lead  in  everything. 

As  Mrs.  Ray  turned  to  him,  he  answered  politely,  but  without  the 
slig'htest  hesitation,  “I  won’t  take  any,  thank  you,  Mrs.  Ray.” 

The  boys  looked  at  him  in  surprise,  and  Clifford’s  mother  said, 
“What!  Not  any  wine?  Oh,  you  are  so  particular!  Of  course,  it 
wouldn’t  do  for  boys  to  make  a practice  of  drinking  it;  but  this  is  some- 
thing extra,  and  a glass  won’t  hurt  you,  it  will  make  a man  of  you.” 

George  was  tempted  to  reply  that  he  knew  just  what  kind  of  a man 
it  would  make  of  him,  he  had  seen  men  like  that,  but  he  did  not  like  to 
say  anything  rude  to  Mrs.  Ray,  so  he  answered  politely,  but  as  firmly 
as  before,  “No,  thank  you.  I really  can’t  take  it.  Please  don’t  urge  me !” 

“Come,  now!  You  won’t  refuse  a lady.  I’m  sure!” 


248 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


All  eyes  were  turned  on  George.  He  colored  slightly  as  Mrs.  Ray 
poured  out  a glass  of  the  sparkling  beverage  and  set  it  before  him ; 
but  his  resolve  was  not  shaken,  and  he  repeated,  “I’m  sorry  to  have  to 
refuse  anything,  but,  indeed,  I can’t  take  it.” 

Mrs.  Ray  was  evidently  annoyed.  “Well,  I won’t  press  you,  if  it’s 
against  your  principles  to  drink  it,”  she  said,  and  turned  to  the  next 
boy  with,  “Well,  you.’ll  take  it,  Harry  Cfark?” 

George’s  refusal  had  given  Harry  courage  to  act.  He  knew  his 
mother  would  not  want  him  to  take  the  wine ; but  he  would  not  have 
been  strong  enough  to  refuse,  if  it  had  not  been  for  his  friend’s  example, 
so  he  said,  “I  don’t  believe  I’ll  take  any,  either,  ]\Irs.  Ray.” 

Frank  Miller,  who  sat  next  to  Harry,  said  the  same,  and  so  it  went 
all  around  the  table  until  it  came  to  Clifford. 

“You’d  better  shut  up  the  cupboard,  mother,  I don’t  believe  any  of 
the  fellows  want  it.” 

Then  they  went  on  eating  their  dinner  and  were  soon  as  merry  as 
if  the  interruption  had  not  occurred.  The  incident  was  seemingly  for- 
gotten. 

But  there  was  one  who  did  not  forget  it.  In  the  next  room  there 
was  a listener,  of  whom  none  of  the  boys  were  aware.  Mrs.  Ray’s 
brother  had  long  been  a source  of  trouble  to  his  family.  It  was  the 
old  story  of  bad  company  and  then  all  sorts  of  dissipation.  He  had  tried 
one  business  after  another,  to  make  a failure  of  all.  At  last  he  had 
gone  away,  and  his  family  hoped  that  the  separation  from  his  old  com- 
panions might  reform  him ; but  he  came  back  an  utter  wreck  and  failure. 

Howard  Morse  had  come  in  while  the  boys  were  at  dinner.  He 
was  sober  then,  but  he  intended  going  out  later  in  the  afternoon  wdth 
a number  of  boon  companions,  and  “making  a night  of  it”  as  usual. 
The  door  between  the  dining  room  and  the  library,  w'here  he  had  thrown 
himself  down  on  the  divan,  was  open,  and  he  heard  his  sister’s  offer 
of  the  wine  and  George’s  refusal. 

It  reminded  him  of  the  time  when  he  took  his  first  glass  of  wine, 
and  then  he  thought  of  the  events  which  followed.  Like  all  drunkards, 
at  times  he  would  have  given  anything  he  possessed  to  break  the  awful 
bondage,  and  now  he  wished  heartily  that  when  he  had  been  offered  his 
first  glass,  he  had,  like  George,  had  the  courage  to  refuse.  Then  the 
thought  came  to  him,  “Am  I going  to  be  outdone  by  a twelve-year-old 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


249 


boy?  'What  he  can  do,  I can;  it  isn’t  too  late  yet.  If  God  will  only 
forgive  me  and  help  me,  I’ll  never  touch  another  drop.” 

A few  minutes  later  the  boys  and  Mrs.  Ray  and  the  three  grand- 
mothers were  greatly  surprised  to  see  Howard  Morse  walk  into  the 
dining  room  and  greet  them  cordially.  Since  he  had  started  on  the 
downward  path,  he  had  kept  taciturnly  to  himself  when  he  was  at  home, 
and  avoided  mieeting  any  of  the  people  who  visited  there.  This  was  a 
new  Howard,  surely. 

After  dinner,  instead  of  hurrying  out  of  the  house,  he  joined  the 
boys  in  the  library.  He  was  so  entertaining,  instituting  new  games,  and 
telling  thrilling  stories,  that  no  one  could  believe  the  clock  right  when 
its  hands  pointed  to  the  hour  for  leaving 

Reluctantly  the  boys  went  home,  after  bidding  “Uncle  Howard”  a 
hearty  good-night. 

As  George  was  going,  Howard  caught  his  arm  and  drew  him  aside 

“I  want  to  tell  you,  George,  that  you  saved  me  to-night.” 

George’s  eyes  opened  wide  in  astonishment.  “Saved  you?  I?” 

“Yes,  it  was  your  example  in  refusing  the  wine  that  set  me  to  think- 
ing, and  I resolved  to  never  touch  another  drop  of  liquor  or  have  it  in  the 
house.  I would  like  to  join  your  temperance  society.  I want  to  help 
save  others  who  have  been  as  low  as  I was.” 

George  was  very  happy  that  night,  and  when  he  prayed  to  his 
Heavenly  Father,  he  did  not  forget  to  thank  Him  for  the  privilege 
which  had  been  given  him  to  save  a soul  by  his  example. 

Howard  Morse  kept  his  word.  He  not  only  joined  the  temperance 
society,  but  later  on,  the  -church,  and  was  known  throughout  the  com- 
munity as  an  earnest  worker. 

Some  years  afterwards  he  started  out  as  a temperance  lecturer,  and 
was  the  means  of  leading  many  souls  from  the  “broad  road  that  leadeth 
to  destruction.  And  in  all  his  lectures,  he  never  failed  to  give  credit  to 
the  boy  who  had  stood  firm  for  his  principle,  and  by  his  example 
pointed  him  to  the  way  in  which  he  was  now  walking. — ^Anne  Guilbert 
Mahon  in  Union  Signal. 

A HELPMEET  FOR  HIM. 

When  Kitty  Hastings  married  the  Rev.  John  Carter,  the  people 
said  she  had  made  a mistake.  It  was  well  known  that  John  was  not  her 


250 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


only  chance.  She  had  had  more  than  one  wealthy  wooer,  but  with 
the  perversity  of  her  sex,  she  had  chosen  John  Carter,  and  John  had  no 
more  money  than  she  had. 

Kitty  was  a pretty  girl,  small  and  slight,  with  graceful,  gentle  ways. 
She  had  a pair  of  honest,  clear,  gray  eyes,  and  anybody  who  got  one 
look  from  them^  trusted  her  at  once.  Everybody  liked  Kitty  Hastings, 
and  a good  many  people  loved  her. 

As  for  John,  he  was  tall  and  slender;  a scholarly-looking  fellow, 
and  indeed  he  had  taken  honors  in  his  college  course.  There  was 
nothing  otherwise  noticeable  in  his  appearance,  but  there  was  a world 
of  quiet  determination  written  in  the  lines  of  his  face,  and  he  w'as,  as 
Kitty  often  proudly  said  to  herself,  “as  good  as  gold.” 

And  John  had  decided  to  become  a Home  IMissionary.  “What  a 
mistake !”  people  said  again.  “He  should  take  a Professor’s  chair  in 
some  college,  where  he  could  indulge  his  scholarly  tastes.”  But  John 
felt  that  he  had  a “call”  and  Kitty  stood  by  him ; so  he  applied  to  the 
Plome  Board,  was  accepted,  and  appointed  to  — of  all  places  in  the 
world  — Bitter  Creek. 

Bitter  Creek  was  a typical  Western  town.  The  new  railway  run- 
ning through  it  made  it  the  natural  outlet  for  a series  of  mining  carjips, 
and  the  stream  from  which  it  took  its  name  ran  through  a wild  and 
fertile  valley,  sure  to  be  occupied  by  settlers.  The  first  house  built 
in  Bitter  Creek  was  a slab  shanty  for  a railway  station ; the  second  was 
a liquor  saloon,  and  on  the  third  was  the  “Occidental  Hotel,”  and  in  four 
weeks  from  the  time  these  buildings  were  erected,  Bitter  Creek  had 
seven  hundred  inhabitants  and  more  were  pouring  in  daily. 

When  John  and  Kitty  arrived  at  Bitter  Creek,  they  went  to  board 
at  the  Occidental  Hotel,  but  the  prices  of  that  establishment  were  far 
beyond  John’s  slender  purse,  and  he  made  haste  to  build  a little  cabin 
like  the  others.  It  was,  perhaps,  one  of  the  poorest  shelters  ever  called 
by  the  beautiful  name  of  home,  but  John  and  Kitty  were  very  glad  and 
thankful  to  be  in  it,  and  just  as  soon  as  John  had  Kitty  fairly  settled, 
he  set  about  his  Master’s  business  in  good  earnest. 

But  how  could  a man  like  John,  a little  shy,  a little  stiff,  a little 
formal  in  manner,  trained  in  all  the  wisdom  of  the  schools,  but  with 
no  great  knowledge  of  human  nature,  get  into  touch  with  such  a com- 
munity as  this? 

There  was  no  room  in  the  town  where  he  could  hold  service,  so  one 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


251 


Sunday  he  invited  them  to  meet  him  in  the  open  air.  He  stood  upon  a 
dry-goods  box,  surrounded  by  a crowd  of  rough  faces,  and  Kitty  stand- 
ing close  beside  him,  sang  like  a thrush ; 

“I  am  so  glad  that  our  Father  in  Heaven 
Tells  of  His  love  in  the  Book  He  has  given. 

Wonder! 'll  things  in  the  Bible  I see; 

This  is  the  dearest,  that  Jesus  loves  me.” 

They  listened  in  silence  while  she  sang,  and  were  quiet  during  the 
opening  prayer,  but  when  John  began  to  preach,  interest  flagged,  and 
he  found  it  hard  to  hold  his  audience. 

Still,  they  did  not  despair.  John  succeeded,  after  a little,  in  erecting 
a building  where  he  could  'hold  services,  though  few  came  to  the 
meetings.  But  John  put  in  a word  wherever  he  could,  and  Kitty  made 
friends  wherever  she  could.  There  were  a few  children  in  the  place, 
and  they  gathered  them  into  Sunday  school.  People  soon  found  out  that 
Parson  Carter  and  his  wife  were  friends  worth  having  in  sickness. 
Kitty  would  go  with  nourishing  and  delicate  food,  ready  to  nurse  or 
to  do  anything  to  relieve  the  sufferer;  and  John  was  always  by  her  side, 
strong  and  helpful. 

So  they  lived  until  after  baby  Jack  was  born;  and  there  never  was 
such  a baby,  so  merry,  so  hearty,  so  loving,  and  afraid  of  nothing  in  all 
the  world.  He  was  a little  evangelist  in  his  own  right.  Bitter  Creek 
could  not  resist  him.  The  rough  miners  coming  down  from  camp  used 
to  pause  at  the  window  to  see  him  while  Kitty  was  putting  him  to  bed, 
and  she  used  to  call  them  in,  and  put  him,  all  rosy  and  warm  in  his 
little  flannel  nightgown,  right  into  their  arms.  After  the  frolic,  she 
would  treat  the  company  to  cups  of  hot  coffee,  and  taking  the  baby, 
would  just  sit  down  and  sing  while  they  listened, 

“Hush,  my  dear,  lie  still  and  slumber. 

Holy  angels  guard  thy  bed,” 

until  the  boy  was  fast  asleep. 

One  evening  a messenger  came  for  John,  saying  that  a very  sick 
man  had  need  of  him.  On  inquiry,  it  was  found  that  the  sick  man 
was  at  a little  settlement  ten  miles  distant.  John  had  never  left  Kitty 
alone  at  night  before,  and  he  hesitated. 

“You  must  go,  John,”  decided  Kitty.  “You  must  not  miss  this 
chance  to  do  the  Lord’s  bidding.” 

So,  after  a little  consideration,  John  went  for  Mrs.  Mulligan,  a 


252 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


decent  and  kindly  Irish  neighbor,  to  come  and  stay  with  Kitty,  and  then 
started  upon  his  lonely  ride. 

That  was  a dreadful  night  at  Bitter  Creek.  A company  of  miners 
were  in  town.  There  was  a great  deal  of  drinking  and  excitement,  and 
finally  a quarrel,  a pistol  shot,  and  a poor  drunken  wretch  fell  dead, 
pierced  through  the  heart  by  a bullet.  The  saloon-keeper  instantly  put 
out  his  lights,  fearing  the  fray  would  continue.  There  were  a few 
moments  of  wild  confusion,  but  presently  the  dead  man’s  friends  bore 
him  into  the  air.  They  soon  saw  that  the  shot  had  proved  fatal.  Some 
started  to  apprehend  the  murderer,  but  others  remained  by  the  poor  dead 
body.  They  tried  to  return  with  it  to  the  saloon,  but  the  keeper  of 
that  establishment  prudently  refused  to  open  his  doors  again.  So  they 
placed  the  remains  upon  a shutter  and  bore  them  to  the  Occidental ; but 
the  landlord  there  refused  them  a resting-place.  It  was  a cold  night, 
and  something  must  be  done,  but  no  one  knew  where  to  go  next  for  an 
asylum.  At  last  one  of  the  men  spoke : 

“Boys,”  said  he,  “let’s  go  to  Parson  Carter’s ; he’ll  take  poor  Harry 
in,  I know.’’ 

And  so,  about  two  o’clock  in  the  morning,  Kitty  was  aroused  by  a 
knock  at  the  door.  She  hastily  dressed,  and  opened  it. 

“Where’s  the  Parson?”  inquired  a rough  voice. 

“He’s  at  Brownville,  with  a sick  man,”  explained  Kitty.  “What  do 
you  wish  with  him?” 

“Nothing,”  stammered  the  man,  embarrassed  by  the  unexpected 
reply.  “It’s  no  matter;  don’t  you  be  frightened.  We  just  wanted  the 
parson  for  something,  that’s  all.” 

But  Kitty  had  been  looking  at  that  black,  motionless  heap,  which 
they  had  brought  with  them,  and  which  they  had  laid  upon  the  path  as 
they  parleyed. 

“Is  anyone  hurt?”  she  asked. 

“No,  ma’am,”  said  the  man.  “Leastways  he  ain’t  hurt  now.” 

“Is  he  dead?  Why  do  you  bring  him  here?”  asked  Kitty  — she  had 
not  lived  a year  in  Bitter  Creek  for  nothing. 

“Because,”  answered  the  man  in  despair,  “we  ain’t  got  nowhere  else 
to  put  him.” 

He  tried  not  to  swear  before  Kitty,  as  he  told  how  he  had  been 
refused  shelter  for  his  poor  dead  friend,  and  how  as  a last  resort  they 
had  brought  him  to  the  parson’s. 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


253 


“Kitty  made  her  decision  instantly.  “You  have  done  quite  right,” 
said  she.  “It  is  just  what  my  husband  would  wish;  bring  him  in.” 

“Are  you  sure  you  won’t  be  afraid,  ma’am?”  asked  the  man. 

“I  am  not  afraid,”  answered  Kitty.  “Bring  him  in,  lay  him  in  the 
sitting-room,  and  I will  take  care  of  him  until  morning.” 

They  obeyed  her,  and  laid  their  burden  on  the  floor  of  the  little  room. 

Kitty  went  into  the  bedroom  and  returned  with  a pillow  for  the 
poor  head  which  would  never  need  one  any  more.  She  knelt  by  the  dead 
man,  and,  folding  back  the  old  coat  which  covered  him,  she  lifted  his 
head  and  slipped  the  pillow  gently  under  it.  When  she  saw  his  face  she 
knew  it,  and  she  could  not  repress  one  pitiful  little  cry,  and  then  with 
hands  that  never  trembled,  she  closed  the  staring  eyelids,  and  going  to 
the  bedroom  once  more,  she  returned  with  a handkerchief  of  John’s 
which  she  laid  gently  over  the  quiet  face ; while  the  rough  men  stood 
awkwardly  by,  speechless,  and  watching  her  as  if  fascinated. 

“There.”  said  she,  turning  to  them,  “you  can  go  now;  I will  take 
care  of  him  — poor  fellow  — until  my  husband  comes.” 

One  or  two  of  them  tried  to  thank  her  with  rough,  husky  voices, 
and  oiie,  the  dead  man’s  special  comrade,  asked  if  he  should  not  stay  with 
her  until  her  husband  came.  But  Kitty  gently  refused  the  offer,  for 
indeed  she  was  more  afraid  of  the  living  than  of  the  dead.  She  after- 
wards discovered,  however,  that  this  same  man  sat  quiety  upon  the 
doorstep  until  he  saw  John  riding  down  the  road  in  the  early  morning. 

Kitty  and  her  friend  kept  the  vigil  together.  Mrs.  Mulligan,  upon 
her  knees,  murmured  prayers  for  the  dead  man’s  soul,  and  Kitty,  kneel- 
ing beside  her,  prayed  also;  but  she  prayed  for  the  living;  and  so  John 
found  the  two  women  when  he  reached  home. 

That  afternoon  at  sunset  the  murdered  man  was  buried  in  the  little 
graveyard  which  lay  upon  the  bleak  hillside  just  outside  the  town.  John 
conducted  the  services.  He  spoke  gently  of  the  poor  man  whom  they 
were  laying  away ; but  he  did  not  neglect  to  speak  a few  solemn  words, 
which  came  right  from  his  heart,  to  the  little  company  who  listened. 
He  told  them  what  their  responsibility  was  for  that  sad  tragedy,  and 
reminded  them  that  such  an  end  might  easily  be  theirs  if  their  lives 
remained  unchanged. 

That  week  a deputation  came  to  call  upon  John  and  Kitty.  The 
spokesman  was  the  dead  man’s  special  friend. 

“Parson,”  said  he,  “we  know  you’d  like  to  preach  to  us.  We  know 


254 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


it’s  your  business,  and  we  ain’t  behaved  very  polite  to  you  about  it, 
but  now  we’re  ready  to  listen.  We  know  you’re  the  right  sort,  an’  as 
for  your  wife” — the  speaker  hesitated,  and  his  voice  shook  — “she’s  the 
kind  of  a woman  who  makes  a man  believe  in  the  angels,  whether  or  no. 
There  must  be  a God,  or  there  couldn’t  be  wimmen  like  her.  And  what 
we  want  to  say  is,  if  you  have  a big  audience  on  Sunday,  don’t  you  be 
skeered.  They’ll  behave  perfectly  respectful,  an’  you  can  say  what  j'ou 
please  to  ’em and  he  added,  shyly,  “if  Mrs.  Carter  would  sing  us  a 
song,  the  boys  would  be  mightily  pleased.” 

On  Sunday  the  rude  little  church  was  filled  to  overflowing,  but  it 
was  a quiet  and  respectful  audience.  And  Kitty  did  sing;  and  John 
preached  as  he  had  never  preached  before,  for  he  was  filled  with  the 
power  of  the  Holy  Spirit  ;and  many  souls  were  born  again  as  the  result 
of  that  blessed  day’s  labor. 

These  incidents  happened  a number  of  years  ago.  As  was  expected, 
the  fertile  valley  filled  with  settlers,  and  John  broke  the  Bread  of  Life 
to  them,  while  Kitty  went  out  and  in  among  them,  winning  all  hearts. 

“She  is  the  one,”  said  John,  “who  opens  the  way  for  me.” 

Many  of  the  settlers  were  poor  foreigners,  ignorant  of  many  things. 
It  was  Kitty  who  taught  their  wives  to  make  wholesome  bread,  how  to 
cut  their  children’s  garments,  and  how  to  sew  them  neatly.  She  was 
full  of  a sweet  wisdom  as  to  the  care  and  training  of  children  and  the 
nursing  of  the  sick.  And  everyone  who  was  in  trouble  turned  to  her 
for  help  and  sympathy  as  naturall}"  as  a child  goes  to  its  mother.  And 
what  she  was,  and  is,  to  her  husband,  with  her  indomitable  courage  and 
cheer,  her  sanctified  common  sense,  her  lovely  intuitions,  and  her  utter 
unselfishiness,  only  he  knows. 

By-and-by  there  were  schoolhouses  built  in  that  valley,  and  John 
and  Kitty  had  the  help  of  intelligent  men  and  womea  in  their  work. 
At  last  a beautiful  church  was  built,  and  paid  for,  and  John  had  the 
happiness  of  preaching  the  first  sermon  ever  heard  within  its  walls. 

Then  the  Home  Board  said  to  John : “Another  man  can  carry  on 
this  work,  while  you  are  peculiarly  fitted  for  the  frontier.  Will  you 
not  go  again  to  the  front  and  open  another  new  field?” 

And  John,  like  the  true  Soldier  of  the  Cross  that  he  is,  answered, 
“I  will  go and  to-day  he  stands  again  in  the  front  rank  with  his  face 
to  the  foe,  and  Kitty  stands  by  his  side. 

Among  friends  of  Home  Missions,  John’s  worth,  I am  glad  to  say. 


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255 


is  recognized,  and  the  magnificent  work  which  he  is  doing  is  spoken 
of  appreciatively.  But  Kitty’s  labors  are  not  noticed.  Her  name  is  not 
“mentioned  in  the  dispatches,”  and  yet  the  fight  is  hardest  upon  her, 
and  she  shows  a courage  which  even  transcends  John’s.  In  fact,  John 
could  never  do  the  work  he  does,  without  her. 

She  has  four  little  mouths  to  feed  now,  and  four  dear  little  bodies 
to  clothe,  and  yet  John’s  salary  is  no  larger  than  it  was  when  he  was 
married,  and  even  that  is  not  always  promptly  paid,  for  the  Board 
itself  is  sometimes  in  debt  to  them,  because  the  great  Presbyterian 
Church  does  not  pay  all  “its  tithes  into  the  storehouse.”  Kitty  has  to 
work  far  too  hard.  She  scrubs,  she  cleans,  she  cooks,  she  sews;  she 
stops  at  nothing  by  which  she  can  make  her  family  comfortable;  and 
she  helps  John  in  the  parish  work  besides. 

Kitty  has  grown  too,  early  old,  and  she  is  very  tired.  She  does  not 
falter.  No ; but  unless  help  comes  soon,  she  will  slip  from  John’s  side 
like  a wreath  of  snow  in  the  spring  sunshine,  and  to  her  husband  and 
children,  and  to  the  church  of  Christ,  her  death  will  be  an  irreparable 
loss. 

Kitty  is  not  the  only  woman  whose  precious  life  is  being  poured 
out  like  water  upon  the  Home  Mission  fields  of  the  Church,  and  in  these 
days,  when  the  cause  of  Christ  needs  every  helper,  is  it  right  for  us 
who  stay  at  home,  to  allow  our  sisters  who  are  bearing  the  burdens  and 
the  heat  of  the  day,  in  the  tremendous  conflict  which  is  now  going  on 
between  the  evil  and  the  good,  to  make  so  costly  and  so  needless  a 
sacrifice? — Woman’s  Board  of  Home  Missions  of  the  Presbyterian 
Church. 

THE  STORY  OF  “OLD  WIESMAN.” 

Mr.  Melvin  E.  Trotter,  of  Grand  Rapids,  Mich.,  is  a converted 
drunkard  and  an  earnest  worker.  In  the  course  of  a characteristic  ad- 
dress, given  in  colloquial  language  (at  the  Norfield  Conference),  he  told 
the  story  of  a noted  convert  known  as  “Old  Wiesman.” 

“Old  Wiesman  would  come  to  our  mission  over  and  over  again. 
And  he  would  come  forward  and  ‘get  religion’  just  as  often  as  we  would 
ask  him,  and  then  he  would  beg  a quarter  (of  a dollar)  and  go  out  and 
get  drunk  again.  He  could  cry  on  short  notice,  and  had  a long  mous- 
tache that  would  catch  his  tears.  Then,  when  I got  out  of  patience. 


256 


STORIES  OF  iiELL’S  COMMERCE 


he  would  bring  up  my  past  life  to  me,  and  tell  me  how  much  worse  I 
had  been  than  he  ever  could  be.  He  had  a way  of  working  himself  up 
into  great  religious  fervor,  by  getting  a chair  in  front  of  him  and  pound- 
ing that,  and  making  all  kinds  of  promises  to  be  good.  But  he  would 
always  end  up  by  saying,  ‘Now  give  me  a quarter!’ 

“And  he  would  go  out,  and  we  would  not  see  him  for  a few  days. 
But  he  always  turned  up  at  the  end  of  that  time  in  a worse  state  than 
before,  and  would'  ‘get  religion’  all  over  again.  When  we  argued  with 
him,  he  would  say,  ‘Well,  you  men  know  how  hard  it  is,  and  I really 
do  try.’  And  then  he  would  try  me  for  another  quarter.  I never  had 
the  heart  not  to  give  it  to  him.  I never  refuse.  If  I did,  I would  have 
more  money  now.  All  old  ‘spongers’  always  ask  for  a quarter.  That  is 
the  proverbial  amount.  And  they  always  ‘have  not  had  anything  to  eat 
for  three  days.’  It  is  never  two,  or  two  and  a half  days,  but  always 
three  days. 

' “Well,  the  old  fellow  came  in  and  stayed  in  for  a year  and  a half 
or  two  years.  But  he  fell  again,  and  for  a while  we  lost  track  of  him. 
I had  office  hours,  and  one  morning  I set  out  to  write  my  annual  report. 
Now,  if  any  of  you  have  had  your  early  education  neglected,  you  know 
how  hard  it  is  to  write.  Then  came  ‘Old  Wiesman’  once  more,  more 
drunk  than  ever.  He  said : ‘Brother  Trotter.’  I cried : ‘Don’t  bother 
me;’  and  turned  him  out. 

“In  the  meeting  I got  down  on  one  knee  and  I prayed:  ‘Lord,  I 
treated  that  old  fellow  just  right.  I am  glad  I threw  him  out.  He  is  a 
disgrace  to  our  mission.  He  just  gets  drunk  over  and  over  again,  and 
he  ‘works  me’  until  I am  tired  of  it.  My  prayer  never  got  any  higher 
than  my  hat.  But  I went  and  told  the  Lord  all  about  what  I had  done 
without  any  bad  conscience.  I went  across  the  street  to  the  hotel  for 
dinner,  and  I never  had  a worse  meal.  Nothing  was  right. 

“That  night  when  I went  home,  I did  not  lead  the  family  prayers. 
Little  Phoebe,  a little  girl  we  have  in  our  house,  read  the  Bible,  and  my 
wife  prayed.  She  said : ‘O  Lord,  if  there  went  anything  wrong  with  my 
husband  to-day,  please  help  him.’  I went  to  bed,  but  I could  not  sleep. 
I got  up,  and  knelt  down  in  a big  leather  chair  I have.  I fell  on  my 
knees,  but  for  once  I could  not  pray.  But  I heard  a voice  say  to  me : 
'Trotter,  did  I treat  you  like  you  treated  old  man  Wiesman,  when  you 
were  drunk  and  down,  and  had  not  a friend  in  the  world?  Did  I kick 
you  out  in  the  cold?  I suffered  much  more  for  you  than  you  did  for 


STORIES  OF  KELL’S  COMMERCE 


257 


old  man  Wiesman.  I suffered  and  died  on  the  cross  for  you,  and  is 
that  the  way  you  treat  a poor  man  in  need?’ 

“Then  I began  to  pray  for  forgiveness.  I never  loved  a man  so 
much  in  my  life  as  I did  old  Wiesman  when  I had  been  praying  for 
about  five  minutes.  I just  loved  him  with  all  my  heart,  and  I have 
loved  every  drunkard  ever  since.  And  that  is  the  only  way  I am  able 
to  help  these  men.  I just  love  them  to  God.  I never  forget  that  I was 
a drunkard,  and  thati Jesus  found  me  when  I was  the  drunkest ; for  which 
I have  been  praising  Him  ever  since.  Then  I remembered  that  Wies- 
man had  told  me  over  and  over  again,  that  I was  the  only  friend  he 
had,  and  that  when;  I threw  him  over  he  would  kill  himself. 

“I  just  prayed  and  prayed  that  God  would  give  me  back  old  man 
Wiesman.  I sent  each  of  my  men  out  in  a different  quarter  to  look  for 
him.  I told  them  not  to  come  back  until  they  had  searched  every  saloon 
and  cheap  lodging-house  in  the  quarter.  But  they  searched  and  searched 
without  effect.  One  night,  shovtly  after,  I was  on  a gospel  wagon 
holding  a service,  and  all  of  a sudden  I spied  my  man.  I sprang  down 
from  that  wagon  and  ran  to  him,  and  just  put  both  arms  around  him 
and  said : 

“ ‘O  Wiesman,  I love  you.’  He  was  drunk  and  dirty,  and  his  mous- 
tache was  longer  than  ever.  He  sobbed  and  sobbed  until  it  was  full,  and 
he  said:  ‘Do  you  love  me,  really.  Brother  Trotter?’  And  I said:  ‘Yes, 
Brother  Wiesman,  I do.  Why,  man,  I have  looked  this  town  over  for 
you.’  He  said:  ‘Do  you  really  love  me?’  and  I repeated:  ‘I  do.’  ‘Then 
lend  me  a quarter.  Brother  Trotter,’  he  said.  And  then  he  sobbed  real 
hard,  and  he  did  it  very  well.  I said:  ‘Old  man,  will  you  forgive  me? 
I am  so  sorry  I kicked  you  out  that  day.  I have  been  mad  with  myself 
ever  since.  For  the  Lord’s  sake,  forgive  me.’  And  Wiesman  said  : ‘Yes, 
if  you  really  love,  of  course  I will  forgive  you ; but  give  me  a quarter.’ 
I gave  him  half-a-dollar,  and  said : ‘For  God’s  sake,  don’t  drink  that  up.’ 
Then  I made  him  promise  to  come  to  the  meeting  at  the  mission  that 
night.  He  did,  aild  the  very  first  one  to  come  forward  for  prayer  was 
old  Wiesman.  He  was  really  and  genuinely  converted  that  night.  He 
showed  me  thirty-five  cents  of  the  fifty  I gave  him,  and  the  other  fifteen 
had  gone  for  supper.  He  was  sober,  too,  and  he  stayed  sober.  And  I 
tell  you,  my  friends,  I have  never  kicked  a man  .out  since  then.  My 
message  is  to  love  drunkards,  for  that  is  the  only  way  you  can  save 
them.” — London  Christian. 


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STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


A SALOONKEEPER’S  PLEA. 

The  Newman  M.  E.  Church  is  the  largest  in  the  city  of  Blooms- 
barre,  having  over  eight  hundred  members. 

The  official  board  is  in  session. 

A very  animated  discussion  is  going  on  over  the  withdrawal  of 
twenty-seven  members  of  the  church.  Dr.  Williamson,  the  eloquent  5 
pastor,  is  speaking.  5 

‘T  admit,  that  in  point  of  numbers,  twenty-seven  out  of  over  eight  ^ 
hundred  would  make  but  very  little  difference,  but  see  who  the  twenty-  ^ 
seven  are  — the  very  ones  who  carry  on  our  prayer  meetings  and  attend  < 
to  the  spiritual  affairs  of  the  church.  It  is  true,  that  they  are  not  the 
wealthy  part  of  our  church,  but  a church  can  not  be  run  by  money  alone.”  ‘ 

“Brother  Williamson,”  spoke  up  the  Hon.  Chas.  Smith,  a member 
of  the  legislature,  “I  say,  let  them  go ; we  will  get  along  better  without  ; 
them.  They  have  gone  grown  crazy  over  the  Prohibition  party,  and 
right  here  in  our  prayer-meeting  some  of  them  have  grown  so  bold  as  to 
declare  that  any  -man  who  did  not  vote  their  ticket  was  supporting  the  j 
liquor  traffic.  Now,  I claim  to  be  as  good  a prohibitionist  as  any  man  in 
the  Prohibition  party,  and,  indeed,  a better  prohibitionist,  for  the  reason  | 
that  I had  the  honor  of  voting  for  the  enactment  of  our  present  license 
law,  which  has  done  more  for  temperance  than  the  Prohibition  party  will 
ever  accomplish.” 

Then  Judge  Grant,  one  of  the  county  judges,  spoke  up:  “Gentle- 
men, this  recent  discussion  about  the  church  being  the  bulwark  of  the 
liquor  traffic  is  nothing  short  of  blasphemy  in  calling  the  faithful  fol- 
lowers of  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ  the  upholders  of  the  rum  traffic,  the 
greatest  curse  the  world  has  seen.  I agree  with  Bro.  Smith,  let  these 
Prohibition  cranks  go,  and  our  church  will  go  on  in  peace.”  (Applause 
from  the  other  members  of  the  board.) 

“Of  course,”  said  Dr.  Wiliamson,  “we  will  have  to  give  them  their 
letters,  for  we  can  find  no  fault  with  their  Christian  character.  But 
we  have  none  to  take  their  places  in  the  public  prayer  service.  This 
is  one  of  the  evils  of  bringing  politics  into  religion ; they  won’t  mix. 
The  Grand  Old  Republican  party  is  a good  enough  temperance  party 
for  me,  and  while  it  is  not  up  to  the  standard  on  the  temperance 
question  that  I would  like  to  see  it,  yet  I am  not  going  to  throw  my 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


259 


vote  on  a party  that  hasn’t  a ghost  of  a chance  of  electing  its  can- 
didates.” (Applause.) 

“1  don’t  understand  what  these  fanatical  Prohibitionists  want,”  said 
the  Hon.  Mr.  Smith.  “Our  church,  as  a church,  has  declared  that  the 
‘liquor  traffic  cannot  be  legalized  without  sin,’  and  nothing  stronger 
could  be  uttered.  The  man  who  sells  liquor  for  a living  is  worse  than 


Just  then  there  was  sharp  knock  on  the  door. 

“Come  in,”  responded  the  double  bass  voice  of  Dr.  Williamson. 

The  door  opened  and  the  portly  form  of  the  saloonkeeper  across  the 
street  appeared  in  the  doorway.  He  was  the  first  to  break  the  oppressive 
silence. 

“Gentlemen,  knowing  this  to  be  your  regular  meeting,  I decided  to 
come  over  and  inform  you  that  I and  my  family  have  made  up  our  minds 
to  join  your  church  and  help  along  the  good  work  you  are  doing.” 

This  speech  was  greeted  with  dumb  astonishment  by  the  members 
of  the  board.  Dr.  Williamson  was  the  first  to  speak: 

“Have  you  given  up  the  saloon  business  ?” 

“No,  sir,”  replied  the  saloonkeeper. 

“Are  you  going  to  ?” 

“No,  sir!  I am  conducting  a respectable  place,  and  see  no  reason 
why  I should.” 

“Well,”  slowlj  replied  the  doctor,  “our  church  rules  prohibit  us 
from  taking  in  dealers  in  liquor,  and  for  that  reason  we  must  refuse 
you.” 

“Oh,”  said  the  saloonkeeper,  a flush  of  anger  coming  into  his  already 
florid  face.  “I  was  not  aware  of  that.  . On  what  ground  does  your 
church  refuse  to  admit  saloonkeepers?” 

“On  the  ground  that  they  are  engaged  in  a business  that  sends 
souls  to  hell,”  replied  Dr.  Williamson.  “The  Bible  says  that  no 
drunkards  shall  inherit  the  kingdom  of  God,  and'  therefore  no  drunkard 
maker  can.  More  than  that,  the  liquor  traffic  cannot  be  legalized 
without  sin.”  « 

The  saloonkeeper  wAs  thoroughly  aroused  by  this  time,  and  in  a 
suppressed,  angry  tone  he  asked : 

“Do  you  know  that  a great  many  of  your  members  are  regular 
customers  of  mine?” 

“I  have  heard  that  some  were,”  said  Dr.  Williamson. 


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STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


“Do  you  know  that  two  of  this  official  board,  now  in  this  room, 
are  among  my  regular  customers?” 

No  reply,  but  two  very  red  faces  showed  who  had  been  hit. 

“Do  you  know  that  I got  my  license  from  Judge  Grant,  who  sits 
right  here,  for  which  I paid  the  regular  license  fee?” 

“Hold  on,”  said  Judge  Grant,  “you  are  going  too  fast,  my  friend ; 
I do  not  make  the  laws,  and  I am  compelled  by  the  license  law  to  grant 
licenses ; therefore,  I am  not  responsible.” 

“Well,  the  law  was  enacted  by  Mr.  Smith,  there,  and  other  repub- 
licans.” 

“You  can’t  place  the  responsibility  on  me,”  said  ]\Ir.  Smith.  “I 
carried  out  the  wishes  of  those  who  elected  me.  Had  I been  elected 
on  a Prohibition  platform,  I would  have  voted  for  a prohibitory  law. 
My  party  stands  for  license,  and  I voted  for  the  law.” 

“I  understand  that  fully,”  said  the  saloonkeeper,  “but  I voted  for 
you;  so  did  Judge  Grant;  so  did  Dr.  Williamson,  the  rest  of  this  board, 
and  the  majority  of  voters  in  your  church.  I took  it  for  granted  that  all 
who  voted  for  you  believed  in  license.  Now,  I am  politely  told  that  I 
cannot  join  this  heaven-bound  band,  and  that  I shall  go  to  hell.  Dr. 
Williamson  here  voted  for  you.  Smith,  to  pass  a license  law  which  com- 
pels Judge  Grant  to  give  me  a license  — to  go  to  hell!  I am  the  fourth 
party  to  the  agreement,  and,  without  the  consent  of  you  three,  I could 
not  engage  in  the  whisky  business.  You  three  are  bound  for  heaven, 
where  you  will  wear  crowns  and  play  on  golden  harps,  while  I am  to 
suffer  the  torments  of  the  damned ! Gentlemen,  if  3"Our  Bible  is  true,  and 
I go  to  hell  for  selling  whisky,  you  will  go  with  me  to  hell  for  voting 
to  give  me  the  legal  right  to  do  so.  Good-night.” 

With  that  he  vanished,  closing  the  door  behind  him  with  a vigorous 
slam. 

The  members  of  the  official  board  looked  steadfast!}'  on  the  floor, 
each  one  seemingly  afraid  to  break  the  silence.  They  were  Christian 
men;  believed  they  were  doing  their  Christian  dut\^  But  the  saloon- 
keeper, in  his  fierce  arraignment  of  those  present,  had  placed  a tremen- 
dous responsibility  on  their  shoulders.  Each  one  was  doing  some  prettv 
serious  thinking,  when  Dr.  Williamson  ended  the  silence  by  sa^dng 
slowly ; 

“Brethren,  that  saloonkeeper  told  us  some  terrible  truths.  Brethre.n, 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


261 


our  hands  are  not  clean,  nor  our  skirts  unspotted.  Let  us  go  home- 
and  pray  for  light.” — Tallie  Morgan. 

ELI  PERKINS  JOINS  A DRINKING  CLUB. 

Being  Told  There  Is  More  Drinking  Than  Ever  in  Maine  and  Kansas, 
He  Makes  an  Investigation. 

“Sellin’  whiskey  in  Kansas !”  exclaimed  the  purple-nosed  railroad 
passenger,  as  he  bit  off  a chew  of  plug  tobacco  while  the  train  was  pull- 
ing out  of  Topeka.  “Drinkin’  whiskey!  Why,  they’re  drinkin’  more 
whiskey  than  they  ever  did  before  I” 

“But  we  never  see  any  barrooms,”  I remarked. 

“No,  they  ain’t  no  bars,  an’  they  ain’t  no  sign  of  a bar;  but  they’s 
drinkin’.” 

Then  I rode  through  the  state  without  seeing  a barroom,  a drunken 
man,  or  a sign  up  where  whiskey  was  for  sale.  Valuable  corners  were 
occupied  by  stores,  and  the  money  that  used  to  go  into  the  open  saloons 
was  going  into  the  stores.  I found  that  Kansas  used  to  send  out  $15,- 
000,000  a year  to  Peoria  and  Kentucky  for  whiskey,  and  now  she  is  send- 
ing out  about  a million  a year.  I found  that  Kansas  is  now  saving 
through  temperance  $14,000,000  a year,  and  in  ten  years  will  save  $140,- 
000,000;  and  still  that  red-nosed  lounger  in  the  smoking  car  is  continually 
screeching  through  the  car : 

“They’s  drinkin’  more  whiskey  in  Kansas  than  they  ever  did  before !” 

Up  in  Maine  I heard  the  same  whiskey-drinkers’  refrain.  It  never 
came  from  a church  member  or  from  a prosperous  moral  business  man. 
It  always  came  from  a drinking  man.  So  during  my  last  trip  through 
Maine  I decided  to  investigate  and  find  out  if  the  law  preventing  drunken- 
ness doubled  the  drunkards  — if  the  law  preventing  the  sale  of  whiskey 
really  increased  the  sale  of  it. 

Well,  a lecture  engagement  called  me  up  to  Farmington,  twenty-five 
miles  north  of  Lewiston.  As  the  engagement  was  for  Saturday  night, 
and  as  no  trains  run  on  Sunday,  I had  to  drive  up  from  Lewiston.  It 
was  a ten-dollar  ride  through  the  snow. 

“This  is  a temperance  state,  isn’t  it?”  I said  to  the  stableman  as  he 
was  hitching  up  his  team. 

“Temperance  state!”  he  exclaimed;  “why,  they’pourin’  down  whis- 
key here  — drinkin’  more’n  they  ever  did  before.” 


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“Hadn’t  you  better  take  a hot  milk  punch  before  we  start?”  I said. 

“Hot  milk  punch!”  he  said,  his  eyes  snapping  with  joy;  “yes,  it 
would  taste  good;  but  you  can’t  get  those  fancy  drinks  up  here.  No 
bars,  you  know,  an’  you’ve  got  to  make  them  fancy  drinks  at  home.” 

“But  when  there  is  so  much  drinking  there  must  be  bars  near  by,” 
I said. 

“Well,  they’re  drinkin’,  all  the  same,  but  we  don’t  have  bars.  We 
have  to  manage  a little,  and  it  takes  time,  you  know.” 

So  we  started  off  for  the  long  twenty-five  mile  ride  through  the 
snow.  We  passed  several  hotels,  and  stopped  and  warmed.  There  were 
no  barrooms,  and  hot  lemonades  were  the  only  drinks  to  be  had. 

We  found  Farmington  without  a bar,  and  a thorough  temperance 
town.  The  audience  that  greeted  me  showed  temperance,  intelligence 
and  prosperity  in  their  faces. 

Coming  back  the  next  morning,  I said  to  my  driver:  “It  is  strange 
that  people  will  so  traduce  this  temperance  state.” 

“They  don’t  traduce  it,”  said  the  driver.  “They’s  drinkin’  goin’  on 
here.  I can  get  you  a drink.” 

“You  can  get  me  a drink,”  I said  with  an  accent  on  the  “can.” 
“Why,  of  course  you  can,”  I said  enthusiastically;  and  when  we  get  to 
Lewiston  we’ll  have  some  nice  hot  whiskey,  won’t  we.” 

“I’m  afraid  I’ll  be  too  busy  putting  out  my  horse;  but  I could  get 
you  a drink  if  I had  time.” 

“But  I’ll  pay  a boy  for  unhitching  the  horse,”  I said,  as  we  drove 
into  the  Lewiston  stable.  “Now,  let’s  have  the  drink,  come  on  I” 

“All  right,”  said  the  driver.  “I  think  I can  get  a drink ; but  mebby 
the  whiskey  is  out,  and  we’ll  have  to  take  bottled  beer.” 

Then  I followed  him  through  the  dried  weeds  and  snow  along  the 
river  bank. 

“This  isn’t  the  way  to  a saloon,”  I said. 

“No,  I’m  going  to  Mike  Grady’s.  Mrs.  Grady  has  some  beer  left 
over  from  a funeral.” 

When  we  reached  the  rear  end  of  Grady’s  cabin,  the  driver  knocked 
on  the  door. 

“Be  aff  from  there  1”  said  an  Irish  woman’s  voice.  “It’s  no  use 
cornin’  round  here.  The  perlice  has  been  round  here,  and  poor  Moike 
has  gone  wid  ’em.” 

“Con — found  it ! !”  said  my  driver,  striking  his  left  hand  with  his 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


263 


right  fist;  “the  police  are  always  gettin’  on  the  end  of  a wake.  But  I 
can  get  you  a drink  yet.”  Then  he  looked  at  me  quizzically,  and  said : 

“Will  you  join  a club?” 

“A  what!” 

“A  club.” 

“Yes,  I’ll  join  anything  to  get  the  drink.  I’ll  join  the  Masons,  join 
a hose  company,  join  a church  — anything.” 

“Come  along,  then.  I know  where  it  is.” 

Then  I followed  him  across  the  bridge  and  up  on  Maine  street.  Then 
he  turned  up  a pair  of  stairs,  and  I followed  him  up  three  stories  to  a 
door  with  a little  wicket  door  in  the  center,  where  he  gave  three  knocks 
and  the  wicket  flew  open.  Then  commenced  some  low  whispering,  and 
then  the  big  door  slowly  opened. 

“Fifty  cents  is  the  price  of  membership,”  he  said,  holding  out  a card 
with  my  name  written  on  it.  Then  we  went  to  the  next  room,  where 
there  was  a bottle  of  whiskey  on  the  table.  I took  it  in  my  hand  and 
smelt  of  it. 

“What  is  it?”  I asked. 

“Oh,  don’t  be  afraid  of  it.  It’s  whiskey.” 

It  was  whiskey  — Maine  whiskey,  but  such  whiskey!  My  man  had 
kept  his  word.  I looked  at  the  bottle,  then  looked  at  my  membership 
card.  I have  that  card  now.  I’m  a member  in  good  standing. 

“Well,”  I said, "this  is  pretty  near  prohibition.  If  walking  eight 
blocks,  climbing  up  three  pairs  of  stairs,  joining  a club  of  drunkards, 
and  paying  fifty  cents  to  look  at  a bottle  of  vile  poison,  isn’t  prohibition, 
I never  expect  to  see  it.” 

If  any  clergyman  reading  this  article  doubts  the  truth  of  my  story, 
I will  send  him  my  membership  ticket  by  return  mail  — with  my  affidavit 
appended. 

Prohibition  does  prohibit  whiskey  about  as  much  as  the  law  pro- 
hibits stealing.  They  still  steal,  but  they  steal  less.  If  the  penalty 
against  liquor  selling  were  as  strong  as  it  is  against  murder,  there  would 
be  as  few  liquor  sellers  as  murderers,  and  there  would  be  less  tears  and 
less  poverty  in  this  world,  and  less  sulphur  in  the  next. — Eli  Perkins,  in 
the  New  Voice. 

WHAT  A TREMENDOUS  PRICE. 

For  two  terrible  days  I was  a drunkard’s  wife.  Yes,  Joe  was  drunk 


264 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


once ; and  that  for  so  brief  a space  that  it  could  easily  be  blotted  out  of 
the  years;  but,  with  his  one  swing  of  the  black  scythe,  Joe  wrought 
more  than  some  do  in  a life  of  drinking. 

We  had  been  married  about  four  years  when  it  all  happened.  Dur- 
ing those  years  there  had  been  no  intoxicants  in  our  home,  nor  had  Joe 
partaken  of  them  elsewhere ; but  I didn’t  know  that  his  grandfather  died 
a victim  of  drinking,  nor  that  his  father,  through  life,  fought  an  inherited 
appetite. 

It  was  the  second  time  Joe  had  attended  his  club  since  his  recovery. 
I remember  little  Grace  held  out  her  hands  and  cried  to  go  with  him.  He 
gazed  at  her  a minute,  then  said  to  himself : 

“I  wish  I could  take  her  with  me.” 

I knew  afterward  that  the  temptation  was  upon  him. 

When  Joe  came  home  that  night  he  was — drunk,  my  husband  drunk. 

Old  Mr.  Symons  helped  him  up  the  steps. 

“Just  be  patient,  Mrs.  Hunter,”  he  said  to  me,  “he’ll  be  all  right,  he's 
too  good  for  this.  I’d  a kept  out  o’  sight  only  I thought  you’d  feel  better 
if  you  knew  it  was  only  me;  I’ll  keep  what  I know,”  and  with  that  assur- 
ance, the  good  old  soul  went  away  and  left  me  with  my  drunken  husband. 

I cried  out  in  my  strange  despair: 

“Joe  must  be  saved,  by  God’s  mercy  and  help,  he  must.  He  must 
stop,  and  at  once,  and  little  Grace  must  never  know  that  her  father  was 
one  day,  and  one  day  only,  a drunkard. 

“How  can  it  be  done? 

“The  crystal  tears  of  wives  before  and  with  me  are  flowing  against 
the  purple  tide  of  woe.  The  cry  of  little  children  shrieks  out  against 
the  clamor  of  the  bar-room.  These  are  apparently  of  small  avail ; but 
little  Grace  and  I must  save  our  loved  one.” 

I depended  much  on  Grace,  how  much  I did  not  know.  But  God 
must  sometimes  use  severe  measures. 

Joe  didn’t  go  down  to  his  office  till  after  noon  next  day.  Grace  had 
been  very  sick  with  the  croup,  and  I took  that  as  an  excuse  for  begging 
him  to  stay  at  home  that  day. 

“Your  mother  will  be  over  and  help  you  take  care  of  Grace,”  he 
assured  me. 

“Mother  won’t  be  here  till  evening;  you  surely  won’t  go  out  again 
lonight? 

“I’m  very  busy,  Mary.” 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


265 


“Well,  kiss  Grace  good-bye.” 

My  heart  sank,  but  I thought  Grace  in  her  mute  appeals,  could  do 
more  than  I could  by  argument. 

“I’d  like  to  take  her  with  me.” 

Again  I knew  how  hard  it  was  for  him  to  resist  the  temptation  to 
drink. 

Joe  didn’t  come  home  for  tea  as  usual.  My  mother  came  and  went 
and  I was  left  waiting,  waiting  far  into  the  midnight  hour.  Then  I heard 
someone  come  into  the  yard  and  fumble  at  the  window.  I started  for  the 
servant’s  room  to  arouse  her,  but  my  heart  forbade  me;  then  I went 
boldly  to  the  wihdow  and  raised  the  blind ; there  he  was.  I went  out 
and  helped  him  in. 

He  slept  heavily  for  two  or  three  hours.  I listened  to  his  broken 
breathing,  then  to  the  soft  slumbers  of  Grace,  in  her  little  cot,  interrupted 
occasionally  by  her  croupy  cough,  for  which  I administered  her  cough 
medicine.  Toward  morning  my  nerves  became  so  exhausted  that  I fell 
asleep.  Grace  had  a severe  attack  of  coughing,  but  it  did  not  suffice  to 
arouse  my  weary  senses  till  I heard  Joe  speaking  in  a thick  voice,  and,  in 
the  gray  dawn,  I could  see  him  standing  beside  Grace’s  cot. 

“Joe!”  I cried,  “what  are  you  doing?” 

In  the  same  thick  tones  he  replied  that  he  was  giving  her  some  med- 
icine for  her  cough.  I was  at  his  side  in  a second ; but  it  was  too  late ; 
he  had  given  her  the  medicine  and  her  little  body  was  already  beginning 
to  writhe  under  its  effects.  I took  the  bottle  from  his  hand.  To  my 
horror,  it  was  not  a medicine  bottle,  but  a small  jar  containing  a carbolic 
disinfectant  that  I kept  on  a table  remote  from  the  medicine  chest. 

I did  everything  I could  for  Grace,  and,  being  a trained  nurse,  I felt 
that  nothing  more  could  be  done.  But  in  ten  minutes  she  was  gone ; 
gone  where  she  would  know  what  her  father  had  done,  and  what  she  had 
done  to  save  him. 

The  awfulness  of  the  next  two  hours ! I felt  paralyzed.  Joe’s  stupor 
was  wearing  off;  he  knew  that  something  was  wrong  with  Grace,  but 
he  was  ignorant  of  his  terrible  crime.  I couldn’t  find  it  in  my  heart  to 
cry  out  against  him,  to  arouse  the  servant,  or  call  the  neighbors.  Those 
two  awful  hours  in  a home  of  every  comfort  and  with  the  tenderest  of 
husbands  — but  he  was  drunk,  and,  unknown  to  himself,  had  committed 
a crime. 

Then  I sent  for  my  people ; they  came,  they  did  everything  that  was 


266 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


to  be  done.  I took  care  of  Joe.  They  asked  few  questions;  just  left  us 
alone  in  our  sorrow.  They  little  knew  how  great  that  sorrow  was ; no 
one  but  myself  knew;  Joe  didn’t  know,  how  could  he?  He  was  drunk, 
but  the  effect  of  the  liquor  wore  off  and  Joe  was  himself  as  he  always 
had  been  except  for  those  two  days.  Still,  I didn’t  tell  him ; as  it  was, 
his  remorse  was  all  that  he  and  I could  bear;  so  I kept  the  terrible 
secret  alone  during  the  days  that  all  that  was  mortal  of  Grace  lay  there. 

Joe  and  I were  alone  that  evening  in  our  little  sitting  room.  The 
others  were  around  the  house  somewhere,  doing  what  they  could ; it 
mattered  not  to  us  what  they  did.  Then  the  burden  of  my  secret  came 
upon  me  ; it  crushed  me. 

“Joe.” 

“Yes,  Mary.” 

Then  I told  him. 

It  was  not  for  Joe  only  that  the  price  was  paid.  In  the  lonely  years 
that  have  followed  Joe  has  gone  into  the  thickest  of  the  fight  against 
drink  and  has  saved  many  a poor,  innocent  child  from  the  clutches  of  a 
drunken  father. — Maine  Temperance  Record. 

WHY  THE  JANITOR  WAS  NOT  DISCHARGED. 

“The  Principal  said  it  dreadful  cross,”  announced  Bobby  Burke  to 
a group  of  boys  and  girls  in  a corner  of  the  school  yard.  “He  said,  ‘Pe- 
terson, if  this  happens  again,  I shall  certainly  report  you  to  the  Superin- 
tendent, and  you  know  what  that  means.’  ” 

“He’s  been  doing  it  lots  lately,  most  every  day,”  said  Nan  Crockett, 
“only  Professor  White  never  caught  him  at  it.” 

“It’s  straight  against  the  rules  that  he  should  drink  beer,  my  papa 
says,”  said  Don  Russell,  “and  why  such  a nice  man  as  IMr.  Peterson 
should  do  it,  I can’t  see.” 

“I  guess  I know  partly,”  piped  up  Jean  Gladding.  “IMr.  Peterson’s 
wife,  she’s  mostly  sick  and  they  never  have  regular  meals,  and  he  just 
has  to  bring  a dry,  old  lunch,  and  probably.  Uncle  Ned  says,  he  wants 
the  beer  to  wash  it  down  with,  or  thinks  he’ll  get  a free  lunch  with  his 
glass  of  beer.” 

“It  would  be  just  dreadful  if  they  ‘fired’  Mr.  Peterson  and  had  a man 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


267 


for  janitor  like  the  one  they  have  at  the  Babbitt  School,  who  don’t  like 
boys  and  girls  a bit,”  said  another. 

“Mr.  Peterson’s  just  splendid.  He  taught  me  how  to  skate  last  win- 
ter,” chimed  in  Nell. 

“And  he  pulled  Don  and  me  to  school  on  our  sleds  lots  of  times,” 
added  Dorothy  Russell. 

Then  the  bell  rang  and  Mr.  Peterson  and  his  troubles  were  forgotten. 
Not  forgotten  by  all,  however,  for  Donald  and  Dorothy  Russell  kept 
thinking  of  him  all  the  afternoon. 

“I  could  let  him  have  my  orange  every  day,”  said  Dorothy,  as  they 
trudged  home  that  afternoon. 

“And  mother  always  puts  in  an  extra  sandwich ; he  could  have 
those;  and  let’s  go  without  pie;  we  always  have  cookies,  too,”  said  Don. 
When  they  talked  the  matter  over  with  Mother,  she  entered  heartily  into 
their  plans. 

“What  he  ought  to  have  is  something  hot  to  drink,”  she  suggested. 

“Mother,”  said  Dot  at  last,  “if  Don  and  I would  promise  to  wipe 
every  single  dish  after  dinner  at  night,  do  you  suppose  that  Ann  would 
bring  us  over  a little  pail  of  real  hot  coffee  every  day  just  before  the 
bell  rang?” 

“Ask  her,”  said  Mother,  with  a smile. 

Mr.  Peterson  had  half  a notion  not  to  try  to  eat  the  dry,  hard  lunch 
he  knew  he  would  find  in  the  newspaper  parcel  in  his  overcoat  pocket. 
But  when  he  went  to  get  it,  it  had  disappeared,  and  in  its  place  was  a neat 
white  box  that  was  altogether  too  big  to  go  clear  into  the  pocket.  Across 
it  and  across  the  shining  surface  of  a little  tin  pail  that  hung  on  the  next 
nail  was  written  on  a slip  of  paper  in  a boyish  hand  : “For  Mr.  Peterson’s 
lunch.”  The  janitor  got  very  red  in  the  face,  and  had  a queer  lump  in 
his  throat  as  he  took  down  the  pail  of  fragrant  coffee  and  tasted  the  deli- 
cious sandwiches  and  fresh  doughnuts  and  pie.  It  seemed  almost  too 
good  to  be  true,  when  the  same  delightful  miracle  happened  every  noon 
for  weeks.  During  those  weeks,  Mr.  Peterson  quite  lost  his  appetite  for 
the  things  they  sold  in  Dannehy’s  saloon  around  the  corner. 

Then  came  a whole  long  week  when  Mrs.  Russell  was  away  from 
home  to  take  care  of  a sick  sister,  and  Don  and  Dorothy  quite  forgot 
about  the  lunch.  It  happened  about  that  time,  too,  although  Dot  and 
Don  couldn’t  know  it,  that  Mr.  Peterson’s  baby  was  sick  with  croup,  and 
Mr.  Peterson  was  so  tired  when  he  came  down  on  Friday  morning  that 


268 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


he  could  hardly  hold  up  his  head  to  attend  to  his  work.  It  was  harder 
than  ever  after  having  had  Mrs.  Russell’s  well-cooked  lunches,  to  take 
out  the  newspaper  parcel  and  munch  its  dry  contents.  It  had  been  weeks 
now,  he  reasoned,  since  he  had  taken  a drink  of  beer;  he  would  just  run 
over  to  Dannehy’s  back  door  and  get  a taste ; it  would  brace  him  up  for 
the  afternoon  and  night.  Alas  for  Mr.  Peterson,  just  as  he  was  sneaking 
out  of  the  saloon  door  back  to  the  schoolhouse,  he  met  Professor  White. 
“It’s  all  over  with  me  now,”  thought  the  janitor.  “What  a fool  I am.” 
But  somebody  else  had  seen  Mr.  Peterson. 

“Oh,  Donald,”  exclaimed  Dorothy,  “we  forgot  it  — the  coffee  and 
lunch,  and  he  went  for  his  beer  and  Professor  White — ” 

“We  just  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  ourselves,”  said  Don.  “I  heard 
somebody  say  this  morning  that  the  Peterson  baby  was  awful  sick,  and 
maybe  that’s  why.  Well,  we  couldn’t  be  always  taking  care  of  Mr. 
Peterson  anyway !”  and  Don  tossed  his  head  impatiently. 

“But  it’s  too  bad  we  forgot  just  when  the  baby  was  sick,”  said 
Dorothy  with  a tremble  in  her  voice.  “Donald  Russell,  I’m  going 
straight  up  to  the  Principal’s  room  and  tell  him  all  about  it,  and  tell  him 
we  — you  and  I — will  be  re-spon-si-ble.”  Dot  stumbled  over  the  big 
word.  “Isn’t  that  the  right  word,  Don,  that  we’ll  be  re-sponsible  for 
Mr.  Peterson,  if  he’ll  let  him  try  again?” 

Don  stared  at  his  sister.  “You,  Dorothy  Russell,  you  go  up  to  the 
Principal’s  room ! You  know  you’ll  be  scared  to  death  to  go  near  there.” 

“I  know  it,”  said  Dot  in  a very  shaky  voice,  “but  iMother  says  it’s 
brave  to  do  things  you’re  afraid  to  do  if  it’s  right.  I may  cry.  I’m  not 
sure ; but  anyway  I’m  going.”  Dorothy  hurried  off.  Donald  hesitated  a 
minute,  then  he  called,  “Stop,  Dorothy  Russell.  You  needn’t  think  I’m 
going  to  let  you  go  all  alone.” 

The  Principal  was  looking  out  of  the  window,  trying  to  make  up  his 
mind  to  go  down  and  have  a talk  with  the  janitor,  when  there  came  a 
timid  knock  at  the  door. 

“We  know  all  about  it,”  began  Dorothy,  plunging  into  the  middle 
of  her  story. 

“Know  all  about  what?”  asked  the  Principal. 

“About  your  having  to  tell  Mr.  Peterson  to  go  if  he  went  after  the 
beer,  and  we’ve  just  come  to  tell  you  that  we  — Don  and  I — are  parti}- 
to  blame,  and  that  we’ll  be  re-sponsible  for  Mr.  Peterson’s  acting  right, 
if  you’ll  let  him  off,” 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


269 


“He  don’t  understand,”  interrupted  Don,  man-fashion.  “Let  me 
tell  him,  Dot.  You  see  Mr.  Peterson’s  wife  and  the  baby  are  sick  and 
he  don’t  have  nice  lunches.”  Then  Don  explained  about  the  way  these 
had  been  supplied,  until  the  unhappy  day  they  both  forgot  to  do  it. 

“You’ll  please  let  him  off  this  once,  if  we  promise  to  be  re-sponsible 
for  him?”  chimed  in  Dot. 

“Bless  your  hearts,  children,”  answered  the  Principal,  with  a tender 
smile.  “I  certainly  will  give  Mr.  Peterson  one  more  chance  on  the  prom- 
ise of  such  good  friends  to  be  responsible  for  him,  and  after  this  there’ll 
be  at  least  three  — for  I shall  join  you  — who  will  stand  by  him  and  help 
him  fight  his  battle,  and  I’m  sure  he’ll  not  disappoint  us,  when  he  knows 
how  much  we  all  care  for  him.” 

The  Principal  was  right,  and  the  children  of  the  Wilcox  School  still 
rejoice  in  having  the  best  janitor  in  the  city. — Julia  F.  Deane,  in  Union 
Signal. 

WHEN  BILLY  VISITED  THE  MAYOR 

“Peter  Brown  says  there’s  sure  a law  agin  it,”  said  Mrs.  O’Brien 
plaintively,  as  she  scrubbed  vigorously  at  her  washing. 

“Sure,  and  Peter  Brown  he  knows,”  answered  Billy  sympathetically 
from  the  stairway.  “Why  don’t  yer  go  and  tell  Mulligan  that  he  ain’t  no 
right  to  sell  your  Tim  the  stuff?” 

Mrs.  O’Brien  wiped  her  eyes  with  a sudsy  apron  as  she  stopped  to 
answer:  “And  haven’t  I just  done  that  very  thing,  Billy,  and  didn’t  he 
grin  and  say,  ‘A  law  agin  it,  is  there?  Well,  what  of  that?  You  ain’t 
supposing  I’ve  got  time  to  go  down  to  the  City  Hall  an  hunt  up  laws 
agin  my  business?  I’ve  got  enough  to  do  to  look  after  thirsty  folks  who 
comes  for  drinks.” 

Billy  gave  his  crutch  an  impatient  thump  upon  the  stair.  How  he 
longed  to  be  a big,  strong  man  who  could  show  saloon-keepers  that  there 
was  a law  against  making  poor  widows’  sons  into  drunkards,  but  as  he 
was  only  Billy,  weak  and  lame  and  poor,  what  could  he  do?  However, 
that  very  afternoon  he  had  a long  talk  with  his  friend,  Mike  Donovan, 
the  corner  policeman,  concerning  the  matter.  “If  the  Mayor,  he  could 
know  ’bout  it,”  said  Billy  thoughtfully,  “I  suppose  he’d  just  fix  it  up 
quick ; now  wouldn’t  he  ?” 

“The  Mayor,  he’s  an  awful  busy  man,  he  is,”  answered  big  Mike 
doubtfully. 


270 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


That  night  Billy’s  dreams  were  of  the  Mayor,  sitting  on  a lofty 
throne  in  the  City  Hall  all  day,  poring  over  great  volumes,  and  every 
now  and  then  pausing  to  send  his  servants  out  after  those  who  did  not 
mind  the  laws  written  in  the  great  book,  for  that  was  what  innocent  Billy 
supposed  was  the  work  of  the  great  Mayor  and  his  many  servants, 
the  police. 

“And  of  course  it’s  writ  there  somewhere  in  the  big  book  about  sell- 
ing the  stuff  to  boys,”  the  lad  thought  sleepily,  “but  mebbe  the  Mayor  — 
he  ain’t  got  to  that  part  yet,  or  mebbe  he  just  skipped  it — ” and  then 
Mayor,  law  books  and  broken  laws  grew  vague  and  shadowy,  as  Billy 
fell  asleep. 

The  City  Hall  clock  was  striking  the  hour  of  noon  the  next  day,  and 
the  Mayor  and  his  secretary  were  wearily  making  their  way  through  a 
mass  of  correspondence,  when  Billy’s  crutch  came  thump  — thump  — 
thump  down  the  corridor.  Although  a hungry  horde  of  office-seekers 
hovered  around  the  door,  denied  admittance,  the  timid  entreaties  of  the 
lame  boy  secured  him  an  audience  with  the  great  man  of  the  city,  and, 
somewhat  frightened  and  trembling,  Billy  found  himself  standing  in  the 
Mayor’s  private  office.  To  make  things  all  the  more  confusing,  there 
was  no  throne,  as  he  had  dreamed,  and  although  rows  of  books  lined 
the  walls,  there  was  no  sign  of  the  massive,  velvet-bound,  gold-clasped 
volume  which  Billy  expected  to  see  lying  before  the  Mayor.  It  was  a 
very  ordinary,  kindly-faced  man  who  looked  into  Billy’s  face  and  asked 
his  errand. 

“Say,”  said  Billy,  swallowing  a lump  in  his  throat,  “I  was  ’fraid 
you’d  jess  skip  it  in  the  book,  you  know;  the  law  about  giving  bo>’^ 
things  to  drink,  or  mebbe  you  ain’t  got  there  yet  — but  Mulligan  down 
on  our  corner  — he  keeps  the  saloon  — he  says  he  ain’t  no  time  to  come 
down  here  and  find  out  what’s  the  law,  and  so  he  jess  keeps  on  givin’ 
Mrs.  O’Brien’s  Tim  whisky  and  beer  and  things  — that  is,  he  gives  it 
when  he’s  got  money,  and  he  won’t  pay  no  attention  to  Mrs.  O’Brien 
when  she  says  ter  him  there’s  a law  agin  it.  Tim  — he’s  a right  smart 
fellow  — only  fifteen  — when  he  ain’t  a drinking,  and  ]\Irs.  O’Brien  — 
he’s  all  she’s  got,  and  I thought  mebbe  you  wouldn’t  mind  when  yer  got 
to  the  place  about  selling  to  boys,  if  I jess  let  yer  know  that  Mulligan 
he  didn’t  know  ’bout  the  law,  and  you’d  send  somebody  down  to  tell 
him,  so’t  he  won’t  do  it  any  more.” 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


271 


The  Mayor  had  quite  thrown  off  the  air  of  weariness,  and  sat  listen- 
ing with  real  interest. 

“So  Mulligan  hasn’t  time  to  learn  the  law,  eh?  Well,  this  is  a case 
that  needs  attention.  I rather  think  I’ve  heard  of  this  Mulligan  before, 
in  other  cases  where  he  didn’t  have  time  to  learn  the  law  of  this  city. 
Brandenburg,”  turning  to  his  secretary,  “make  a careful  note  of  that 
man’s  name  and  location,  and  the  charge  the  boy  makes.  Take  imme- 
diate steps  — immediate,  you  understand  — to  look  into  the  matter,  and 
if  the  charge  is  true,  and  I have  no  doubt  it  is,  that  man’s  license  is  to 
be  revoked.” 

Then,  turning  to  Billy,  “And  now,  my  boy,  I’m  glad  to  have  met 
you,”  and  the  great  man  stretched  out  his  prosperous  hand  to  clasp 
Billy’s  thin,  scrawny  one.  “I  wish  I had  more  loyal  citizens  who  are 
interested  in  having  the  laws  obeyed  rather  than  in  getting  a job.  I 
want  you  to  keep  your  eyes  open,  my  boy,  and  if  you  hear  of  any  more 
saloon  men  who  haven’t  time  to  learn  that  law  about  selling  to  boys 
under  age,  just  let  me  know.” 

The  excitement  in  the  old  tenement  was  great  when  it  was  learned 
that  Billy  had  actually  visited  the  Mayor  in  person;  nor  was  it  lessened 
when  it  was  later  discovered  that  Mulligan’s  license  had  been  revoked. 
No  one  was  more  deeply  irhpressed  than  Mrs.  O’Brien’s  Tim. 

“It’s  the  Mayor  hisself,  Tim,”  Billy  solemnly  told  him,  “as  would 
shut  up  every  drink  house  in  the  ward  to  keep  you  the  fine  boy  ye  was 
before  ye  got  ter  going  to  Mulligan’s.  And  say,  Tim,  if  I’d  a mother 
like  your'n  and  a Mayor  who  wanted  to  make  a man  of  me.  I’d  give  it. 
a try  myself  along  with  ’em,  that’s  what  I would.” 

And  Tim,  hanging  his  head,  answered  humbly,  “Say,  Billy,  I ain’t 
worth  all  the  fuss;  but  if  you  think  I am,  say.  I’ll  just  do  it,  I will;  I’ll 
give  it  a try  too.” — Julia  F.  Deane,  in  Union  Signal. 

HOW  JIMMY  KEPT  CHRISTMAS. 

“A  merry  Christmas  to  you,  Jim,”  said  Mr.  Thomas  Dalyrymple  care- 
lessly, as  he  counted  out  the  change  for  his  papers. 

“Thanks,”  said  the  newsboy,  and  his  grimy  fingers  closed  over  the 
money.  “Wisht  yer  sayin’  would  make  it  so.” 

“Well,  I suppose  it  can’t  be  any  too  merry  for  a boy  who  has  to 
sell  papers  for  a living,”  answered  the  young  man.  “I  say,  Ned,”  turning 


272 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


to  his  companion  who  was  sitting  with  his  feet  perched  high  up  on  the 
radiator,  while  he  puffed  at  a cigar,  “Let’s  invite  Jim  to  our  little  sup- 
per tonight  — to  fill  Charley’s  place.”  He  lowered  his  voice,  and  turned 
his  head  away  from  Jim,  as  he  added;  “It  will  be  great  sport  to  see  how 
the  boy  will  act  in  such  a place.  He’s  an  original  chap.” 

Ned  nodded  a “y^s,”  with  a sly  wink  of  understanding. 

Many  a worried  shopper  and  tired  business  man  paused  that  day  to 
look  a second  time  into  the  happy  face  of  a certain  newsboy  on  the  city’s 
crowded  corner,  and  to  note  the  almost  exultant  ring  in  the  lusty  voice 
as  he  cried : 

“Here’s  yer  ’Mericun,  ’Erald  and  Chronicul ! Here’s  yer  papur!” 

What  did  it  matter  if  the  frosty  wind  nipped  the  poorly  protected 
toes  and  fingers,  or  if  customers  forgot  to  buy,  and  careless  crowds  jos- 
tled the  hungry,  tired  boy.  Jim  'was  going  to  have  a merry  Christmas. 
He  closed  out  his  papers  a little  earlier  than  usual  and  hurried  home  to 
tell  his  mother. 

“I  wisht  yer  and  little  Bud  had  been  invited,  too,”  he  said,  “but 
mebbe  there’ll  be  oranges  and  things  to  bring  yer.  Lame  Dick  says 
there  mostly  is  at  such  doin’s.” 

Never  had  there  been  such  frantic  attempts  at  making  an  elaborate 
toilet ; such  scrubbing  of  face  and  grimy  hands,  such  brushing  and  hur- 
ried darning  of  ragged  coat  and  trousers,  such  painful  efforts  with 
the  comb. 

Jimmy’s  usually  level  head  whirled  with  delight  and  amazement,  as 
he  was  ushered  into  what  seemed  to  him  a fairyland.  Half  a dozen 
jovial  voices  made  him  welcome,  and  he  was  hurried  to  the  one  vacant 
chair  at  a table  which  glittered  with  cut  glass,  silver  and  china. 

“What’ll  you  have,  sonny?”  asked  Tom  Dalyrymple,  pushing  a glass 
of  something  sparkling  toward  him.  “Here’s  all  kinds  of  things  to  make 
a merry  Christmas.” 

Jim  drew  a ragged  coat-sleeve  across  his  dazzled  eyes,  and  straight- 
ened his  shoulders,  as  if  to  cast  off  the  spell  of  magic  which  the  warmth 
and  light  and  fragrance  had  thrown  about  him. 

“What  is  it?”  he  asked,  pointing  at  the  beaded  liquor  in  the  offered 
glass. 

“Something  to  warm  your  heart  and  make  you  forget  you’re  a 
newsboy  — make  you  think  you’re  a howling  swell,  with  money  in  your 


“I  know,  daddy,  but  there  is  the  other  world.” 


See  Page  208 


TAKING  CARE  OF  DRUNKARDS  CHILDREN 
Dwight  L.  Moody  in  his  early  days  used  to  go  into  the  slums  and  gather 
together  the  neglected  children  of  drunken  parents  and  take  them  to  a 
little  room  and  teach  them  the  Bible. 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


273 


pocket.”  It  was  Tom  Dalyrymple’s  voice,  grown  somewhat  thick  from 
too  much  wine. 

The  boy  of  the  street  corner,  forced  by  his  hard  life  to  read  men  at  a 
glance,  looked  keenly  round  the  table  from  the  empty  glasses  to  the 
reckless  faces.  Every  face  bore  the  mark  of  the  evening’s  feasting  in  its 
loss  of  manhood.  The  boy’s  lips  curled  with  scorn  and  disgust. 

“Say!  is  dis  what  yer  call  Chrismus?”  he  demanded,  “If  ’tis,  then 
here’s  one  feller’s  done  with  it  all  right.  No  Chrismus  fer  me.  No 
sirree.  Can’t  afford  to  be  knocked  out  of  my  job  by  that  stuff,”  he  con- 
tinued in  no  uncertain  tone,  pointing  straight  at  the  ruby  wine  upon 
the  table. 

“O,  I say,  Jim,  what’s  that  you’re  giving  us  ?”  It  was  Tom  Dalyrym- 
ple’s irritable  voice,  angered  that  the  sport  of  the  evening  should  be  thus 
spoiled.  “Just  taste  a bit.  It’s  only  wine;  it  won’t  hurt  you.  ’Twill 
warm  you  up.” 

“Not  on  yer  life.”  The  boy’s  face  was  almost  stern.  “I  know  that 
stuff,  I do.  I tried  it  onct.  Mebbe  you  fellers  ain’t  got  anybody  ter  be 
lookin’  out  fer,  so  it  don’t  count  if  you  lose  yer  jobs.  It’s  different  with 
this  feller.  I’ve  got  a mammy  and  a little  kid  what’s  growin’  up  that 
has  to  have  grub  and  togs  to  wear.  And  say,  don’t  yer  forget  it,  there’s 
a dozen  guys  a stayin’  wake  nights  to  get  that  corner  of  mine  to  sell 
their  papers.  Think  I’m  going  to  lay  myself  out  with  that  stuff?  No, 
sirree;  no  Chrismus  for  this  kid,  if  that’s  the  game.” 

Six  manly  faces  had  grown  strangely  ashamed  and  quiet,  as  Jim  thus 
frankly  stated  his  position,  at  the  same  time  leaving  the  table  and  push- 
ing back  his  chair  determinedly,  although  his  hungry  eyes  looked  greed- 
ily at  the  good  things  which  stood  within  his  reach. 

“Say,  boys,”  the  voice  of  Ned  Burton,  who  had  partaken  less  freely 
of  the  wine  than  the  others,  broke  the  silence.  “It  is  a heathenish  way 
to  spend  Christmas.  I’ve  a beastly  headache  already,  and  we  all  know 
where  we’ll  be  tomorrow  morning  if  we  keep  it  up.  Fill  up,  Jim,  with 
everything  you  like  the  looks  of  on  the  table,  and  stuff  your  pockets,  too. 
Then  we’ll  go  out  together  and  seek  another  kind  of  Christmas.  It  isn’t 
fair  to  let  you  think  this  is  a sample  of  Christmas.” 

“Just  wait  for  me,  too,”  said  another  voice.  “The  stores  are  open 
yet,  and  I’ll  go  along  and  help  load  up  with  something  for  the  ‘kid 


274 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


what’s  growin’  up.’  I haven’t  quite  forgotten  the  Christmas  I had  when 
I was  a boy.” 

^ ^ ^ 

“Say,  there  wuz  about  ten  minutes  I thought  for  sure  Chrismus  was 
no  ’count,”  Jim  confided  to  his  mother  the  next  morning,  as  they  sat 
serenely  happy  before  a comfortable  fire,  fed  by  Christmas  fuel,  delight- 
ing in  the  joy  of  little  Bud  as  he  opened  package  after  package  of  Christ- 
mas joy.  “But,  say,”  Jim  continued,  “one  of  them  fellers,  he  said  a queer 
thing.  He  said  it  kind  of  ’shamed  like ; ‘Jim,  yer  a sort  of  Santy  Claus 
yerself,  fer  you’ve  brought  two  of  us  fellers  the  right  sort  of  Chrismus, 
and  what’s  more,  there’ll  be  two  mothers  in  two  homes  that’ll  have  a 
merrier  Chrismus  than  they’ve  had  for  many  a year.  You’re  all  right, 
Jim.’  Then  he  squeezed  my  hand  tight  like,  and  wished  a merry  Chris- 
mus, and  was  gone.  Say,  wasn’t  that  queer  now?” 

But  Jim’s  mother  only  wiped  a tear  away  with  the  corner  of  a 
ragged  apron,  and  softly  answered,  “Thank  the  Lord.” — Julia  F.  Deane, 
in  Union  Signal. 

WHEN  THE  BARRACKS  WENT  DRY. 

Only  childhood,  sanguine  and  idealistic,  would  have  imagined  such 
an  undertaking  possible ; but  to  Johnny  Swavoke  and  Tim  Sherry,  boys 
of  ten  or  eleven  years,  it  appeared  highly  feasible  and  patriotic.  They 
had  been  attending  a picnic  for  the  children  of  the  neighborhood,  given 
by  the  workers  of  the  Settlement  House ; a great  occasion,  with  a brass 
band  and  games  and  plenty  to  eat,  including  ice  cream.  Yet  the  thing 
that  had  most  impressed  these  small  boys,  walking  home  together  from 
the  steamboat  landing,  was  the  address  of  the  afternoon  on  “The  Fourth 
of  July  and  What  It  Stands  For.” 

Since  it  was  the  last  of  June,  the  speaker  had  thought  it  a good 
opportunity  to  impress  these  small  waifs,  most  of  them  foreign  born  or 
of  foreign  parentage,  with  the  meaning  and  value  of  our  American 
institutions.  He  had  appealed  to  the  hero  worship  inherent  in  every 
son  of  Adam  by  illustrations  drawn  from  the  lives  of  George  Washing- 
ton, Abraham  Lincoln,  and  other  great  men  of  the  nation;  and  at  least 
two  of  his  hearers  were  burning  with  a desire  to  emulate  these  giants  of 
the  past  by  some  heroic  act. 

“We  hasn’t  no  fair  chance,  nohow,”  observed  Tim  sadly  and  sagely, 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


275 


as  they  sauntered  along.  “What  wid  not  havin’  no  chice  o’  daddys,  but 
jest  havin’  to  take  what  comes  — an’  he  an  old  sot  — what’s  a kid  to  do? 
It’d  be  jolly  fine  doin’  somethin’  wuth  while  for  future  gen’rations  to  — 
to  — sorter  stare  at  (yer  know  how  the  gen’lman  put  it),  but  whin  yer 
has  hardly  enough  to  eat,  an’  yer  mammy’s  off  washin’  an’  yer  dad’s 
drunk,  yer  up  against  it !” 

Johnny’s  thin  little  face  looked  sympathetic,  but  not  for  long.  It 
was  soon  overspread  with  a rapturous  smile.  “My  country  ’tis  ob  Dee,” 
he  said.  “Me  hero?  Yah!” 

“That’s  all  right  for  talk,”  broke  in  Tim,  “but  how’s  a feller  to  serve 
his  country  an’  he  no  sodger  or  big  enough  to  be  the  president?  That’s 
what  I want  ’r  know.” 

I try.”  Johnny’s  little  brown  fingers  spread  out  airily.  “Meester 
Hay,  he  say  (Mr.  Hayes  was  a teacher  at  the  Settlement)  drink  curse  de 
country  — de  country  mus’  be  sabe  from  drink.  I fight  de  drink.  I sabe 
my  fader.” 

“How?” 

Johnny  halted  in  the  road  and  lowered  his  voice  as  if  telling  solemn 
news.  “De  saloon,  dey  close  de  Fourth  of  July.  No  drink  all  de  day, 
Meester  Hay  say  so.” 

“Well,  what  of  that?  The  men’ll  be  full  jest  the  same.  They’ll  stay 
half  the  night  drinkin’  an’  bring  a bottle  home  wid  ’em.” 

“Yah!”  Johnny  nodded  his  head.  “I  take  the  bottle  — I drop  heem 
een  de  riber.  See ! One  man  no , deesgrace  ‘My  country  ’tis  ob  Dee,’ 
de  Fourth  of  July.” 

“That’s  your  plan,  is  it?” 

“I,  my  fader — ...you,  your  fader  — Joe  Miller,  his  fader,”  Johnny’s 
hands  waved  hither  and  thither  as  he  made  these  explanations. 

“That’s  oney  three  of  us !” 

“Tree  an’  tree  make  seex.  More  boys,  more  faders.  See?” 

“But  it’s  oney  for  one  d^-y,  Johnny,”  sighed  Tim.  “It  won’t  keep.” 

“My  fader  sober,  I speak  mit  heem.  I tell  heem  great  men  do  not 
drink,  gude  men  do  not  drink,  men  who  want  money  do  not  drink.  I 
reason  mit  heem.” 

Tim  sighed  again.  “Dad’s  an  awful  hard  hitter,”  he  said. 

“He  wheep?”  inquired  the  boy’s  companion  sympathetically. 

“Wallop  the  hide  off  me!  Oh,  I’ll  be  up  agin  it  for  fair  if  I 
join  you.” 


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STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


The  little  Pole  eyed  his  comrade  wistfully.  The  blood  of  his  father, 
whose  patriotism  had  earned  him  exile,  was  asserting  itself  in  his  veins. 
“De  hero  meet  de  hard  ting  an’  it  seem  no  hard  to  heem.  Eet  ees  easy 
— eet  ees  for  ‘My  country  ’tis  obDee’.”  Johnny’s  eyes  and  palms  turned 
"skyward. 

Tim  felt  impressed.  “A  feller  wouldn’t  mind  if  it  wur  for  his 
country,”  he  said.  “I’m  game,  Johnny.  I’m  wid  you,”  extending  his 
hand. 

“You  tell  Joe?  Hey?” 

“Yes.” 

“An’  I tell  Herman.  We  take  all  de  bottle  we  fin’  from  all  de  men, 
no  matter  who  heem  fader?” 

“Oh,  that’s  the  game!  Well,  I’m  in  for  the  whole  thing.  I’ll  get  all 
the  bottles  I can  swipe.”  And  the  two  conspirators  parted. 

Having  interested  his  two  friends,  the  small  instigator  of  the  plot 
was  content.  He  was  too  cautious  to  tell  many.  But  not  so  Tim  Sherry. 
Having  enlisted  in  the  difficult  role  of  playing  hero,  he  was  ready  to 
take  risks,  and  determined  before  his  meagre  supper  was  finished,  that 
the  “Barracks”  should  go  strictly  “dry”  on  the  coming  Fourth  of  July. 
“Barracks”  was  the  name  given  to  the  miserable  three-story  box  on  the 
banks  of  the  river  where  Tim  Sherry  lived.  It  was  tucked  in  between 
several  large  warehouses  and  was  seldom  visited  by  either  sunshine  or 
fresh  air,  yet  it  furnished  quarters  for  eight  families,  the  men  in  every 
case  being  employees  at  these  warehouses  and  most  of  them  addicted  to 
strong  drink.  Johnny  Swavoke  did  not  live  there,  his  family  being  part 
of  a colony  of  foreigners  in  another  neighborhood. 

Tim  went  out  that  very  night  to  make  recruits,  and  before  bedtime 
his  chum,  Joe  Miller,  and  six  others  had  been  sworn  in.  It  is  extremely 
doubtful  if  the  moral  quality  — or  even  the  patriotic  — figured  chiefly 
in  the  enlistment  of  these  later  recruits,  though  all  were  alive  to  the 
“lark”  it  involved  and  the  “rumpus”  which  was  likely  to  follow. 

“Yer’d  better  back  out  while  there’s  time,  if  yer  scare}',”  Tim 
advised.  But  no  one  retreated. 

“Lift  yer  right  han’,  thin,  if  ^er  means  it,  an’  swear  that  yer’ll  do 
yer  bist  to  see  the  Barracks  dry  the  Fourth  of  July.” 

Fvery  hand  went  up. 

“All  right  thin  ; mum’s  the  word  till  the  night  afore  the  Fourth,  an’ 
thin  it’s  hustle.  The  feller  that  blabs  has  me  to  settle  wid.” 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


277 


Though  Johnny  made  no  attempt  to  add  to  his  followers,  he  did 
make  a confidante.  This  was  no  other  than  Miss  Bessie  Brewster,  the 
youngest  and  fairest  of  the  Settlement  workers,  whose  blue  eyes  and 
golden  hair  had  long  before  enslaved  the  little  Polish  lad. 

“Eet  ees  a secret,”  he  began. 

“All  right,”,  she  laughed.  These  little  chaps  were  such  funny  fel- 
lows I But  she  opened  her  eyes  very  wide  as  his  story  progressed,  and 
wondered  if  Mr.  Hayes  ought  not  to  be  informed  of  these  doings.  “Pm 
afraid  you  little  fellows  will  get  hurt,”  she  said.  “Won’t  your  father 
whip  you?” 

“He  gude  man  when  he  no  drink,”  explained  Johnny.  “He  kind. 
He  bring  me  one  leetle  flag,  all  stars  an’  stripe  one  day.  ‘Eet  ees  your 
flag,’  he  say  to  me.  ‘Eet  shall  be  mine.’  He  fight  for  hees  flag  till  dey 
send  heem  away.  He  come  to  dis  country.  But  de  drink,  Mees,  de 
drink!  He  forget  all  in  de  drink.  My  mudder  cr}^  — her  heart  break! 
I mus’  stop  heem  drink!” 

“I  see,”  said  the  little  lady  sympathetically,  “but,  but  — suppose 
we  go  to  Mr.  Hayes  and  find  out  if  this  is  the  best  way  to  help  him. 
There  may  be  some  other  way  to  save  your  father.” 

“There  ees  none,”  answered  the  child  with  conviction.  “Eet  ees  a 
secret,  we  mus’  do  eet.” 

“But  I think  I ought  to  tell  Mr.  Hayes.” 

“You  will  not,  Mees.”  Johnny’s  face  was  eloquent  with  his  unshaken 
trust  in  “Mees.” 

“No,  I suppose  I will  not,  you  small  hero,”  the  girl  replied,  lips 
smiling,  but  eyes  troubled,  as  she  noted  the  boy’s  sudden  access  of 
dignity.  Had  not  “Mees”  called  him  herod 

Quite  early  on  the  morning  of  the  Eourth,  “Mees”  was  summoned 
again  to  receive  Johnny.  He  wanted  her  to  accompany  him  to  Mr. 
Hayes’  office  and  help  explain  his  errand  to  that  gentleman. 

“My  fader  wake,”  said  the  boy  at  the  end  of  his  confession.  “He 
ees  angry.  I talk  mit  heem  of  drink.  I tell  heem  gude  men  do  not 
drink.  You  will  come  an’  talk  mit  heem?  He  will  leesten  to  you, 
he  will  write  heem’s  name  on  de  leetle  pledge.  It  ees  a gude  name.  Eet 
will  not  blush  for  heem.” 

Puzzled  as  the  gentleman  was,  over  the  strange  action  of  the  boys, 
uncertain  as  he  felt  of  any  good  outcome  to  the  affair,  he  yet  promised 
to  visit  Mr.  Swavoke  and  talk  with  him  about  his  habit. 


278 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


“And  why  can’t  we  have  a patriotic  temperance  service  here  to- 
night?” asked  Miss  Brewster  at  this  juncture.  “We  can  have  the 
orchestra,  and  Mr.  Jenkins  will  sing  for  us.  You  can  make  a little 
temperance  speech  and  I’ll  offer  them  the  Abraham  Lincoln  pledge.  I’ll 
see,  too,  that  there  is  lemonade  and  ice  cream  and  cake.  We  must  do 
all  we  can  to  help  these  boy-heroes.” 

All  the  commotion  stirred  up  in  the  “Barracks”  on  that  Fourth  of 
July  morning,  and  what  happened  to  the  young  conspirators,  can  better 
be  imagined  than  told,  but  the  “Barracks”  was  “bang-up  dry,”  as  Tim 
whispered  exultantly  to  Joe  Miller  before  he  went  in  to  “take  his 
med’cine.”  He  found  his  father  storming  around  as  he  vainly  looked 
for  his  bottle. 

“If  you’ve  ben  meddlin’  wid  it,  or  let  the  childer  meddle  wid  it, 
it’s  all  up  wid  you.  Nan,”  he  was  saying  to  his  wife  as  he  clutched  her 
arm. 

“Let  her  be,”  cried  his  son.  “I  took  yer  bottle.” 

“You !”  The  man  caught  the  boy  roughly  and  shook  him.  “Git  it, 
an’  be  quick  about  it,  too,”  he  thundered  as  he  flung  the  lad  from  him. 

“I  can’t  git  it.  I throwed  it  in  the  river.”  Tim  caught  his  breath 
over  the  confession.  With  a single  blow  the  man  felled  the  child  and 
strode  toward  the  door.  “I’ll  tache  ye  to  thry  yer  tricks  on  me !”  he 
yelled. 

“It’s  no  use  lookin’  for  it,  daddy.  I spilled  it  an’  broke  the  bottle.” 

The  boy’s  daring  amazed  his  father,  “Yer  spilled  it  an’  broke  me 
bottle?”  he  vociferated.  “I’ll  break  every  bone  in  yer  body.” 

The  brute  seemed  likely  to  keep  his  word,  when  a diversion  came  in 
the  shape  of  a neighbor  wishing  to  borrow  a little  whisky.  It  was  the 
old  captain. 

“I  haven’t  a drop  for  mesilf,”  answered  IMr.  Sherry.  “That  villain 
of  a Tim  of  mine  has  emptied  me  bottle  in  the  river.” 

“It’s  a queer  thing,”  said  the  visitor,  “but  every  man  in  the  house 
is  without  a drink.  I brought  home  a full  bottle  myself  last  night,  and 
so  did  most  of  our  neighbors,  but  it  has  all  disappeared  over  night. 
Perhaps  your  son  can  account  for  it.’" 

“No !”  cried  Mike  Sherry  with  an  oath ; “not  the  whole  of  it  gone  ?” 

“Every  sup,”  was  the  irritated  reply,  and  the  first  gleam  of  satis- 
faction that  had  reached  the  Irishman  since  he  discovered  his  own  loss 
came  with  the  evident  discomfort  of  this  old  ex-soldier  and  ex-gentleman 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


279 


who  received  small  favors  from  the  proprietor  of  the  shops  and  rather 
looked  down  on  his  fellow  workmen. 

“The  Barracks’s  gone  dry,”  piped  Tim  in  the  midst  of  his  father’s 
exultation,  groaning  as  he  tried  to  draw  himself  to  his  feet. 

“Dry,  you  rascal !”  roared  his  father,  and  then  began  to  laugh  at  the 
look  on  the  old  soldier’s  face.  “Out  with  it,  Tim.  Did  ye  stale  all  the 
likker  in  the  house?” 

“Me  an’  me  frinds  did,”  declared  Tim  triumphantly.  “We’se  afther 
kapin’  the  citizens  of  this  Republic  sober  on  the  Fourth.” 

“Did  ye  aver  hear  the  loikes  of  that?”  Mike  demanded,  his  dudgeon 
lost  in  admiration  of  his  son.  But  the  neighbor  to  whom  he  spoke  had 
disappeared.  “What  for  did  ye  do  it,  Tim,  an’  who  put  yer  up  to  it? 
Some  of  them  prohibitioners,  I misdoubt?” 

“Nobuddy  didn’t  put  me  up  to  it  but  jest  Johnny  Swavoke  and 
mesilf,”  declared  Tim  stoutly. 

“An’  what  for  did  ye  go  an’  do  it?”  still  questioned  the  astonished 
man. 

“I  — I thought,”  wailed  his  offspring,  rubbing  his  eyes  vigorously, 
•'that  if  — if  I couldn’t  have  the  pick  of  the  gents  for  me  daddy  — George 
Washington  or  Abe  Linkum,  ye  know — I’d  like  to  have  wan  that’s  a 
dacent  patriot,  and  a respictable  member  of  this  glorrious  Republic.” 

Mr.  Sherry,  being  sober  and  swiftly  losing  his  anger,  winked  at  his 
wife,  something  that  had  not  happened  before  for  years.  “Hear  the 
brat!”  he  said  with  a grin.  “Where’d  he  pick  up  the  loikes  of  that?” 

“The  gin’lmen  at  the  Settl’ment  picnic  said  it,”  volunteered  Tim,  his 
fist  still  in  his  eyes.  “He  sed  as  how  we’d  all  like  to  be  hearoes,  but  if 
we  coul4n’t  be  thim  we  could  be  men  worthy  of  thim  an’  of  our  country. 
I thought  I’d  like  me  daddy  to  be  wan  or  the  ither.” 

“An’  that’s  why  ye  stole  me  bottle?”  Mike  seemed  amazed. 

“Yis.” 

“I’m  sorry  I whaled  ye,”  said  Mike,  visibly  moved.  “ ’Twur  a noble 
ambition,  it  wur,  an’  worthy  of  ye.  I’ll  not  tech  likker  the  day.” 

Tim’s  hands  fell  from  his  eyes.  “Not  if  nobuddy  trates  ye?”  he  cried- 

“Not  if  the  prisidint  of  the  United  States  trates  me,”  responded 
Mike. 

“Thin  I’m  proud  of  yer  a’ready,”  burst  forth  the  boy,  crying  afresh. 

“What  for  are  ye  blubberin’,  whin  yer  dad  says  he’ll  not  drink?” 
inquired  the  child’s  mother. 


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STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


“ ’Cause  I’m  too  proud  not  to,”  answered  the  boy,  “an’  if  he  oney 
wouldn’t  never  drink  agin  I’d  be  happy  foriver  an’  iver  an’  mos’  as 
proud  ’sif  he  wur  Abe  Linkum  hissef.” 

Mr.  Sherry  looked  at  the  poor,  little  writhing  creature,  cringing 
before  him  in  spite  of  gallant  words,  and  his  heart  smote  him.  A new 
something  stirred  within  him  — that  something  that  must  be  divine, 
since  it  has  wrought  so  many  miracles  in  wretched  lives.  “Yer  a man, 
Tim,”  he  said  huskily,  “an’  that’s  more  than  I am  mesilf.  Ye  desarve  a 
betther  daddy  an’  ye  shall  have  him  afther  this.  Don’t  be  afeard,”  as 
the  boy  shrank  from  his  touch,  “I  won’t  hit  ye  never  agin,  I won’t.  It 
seems,”  he  added,  a touch  of  humor  saving  him  from  the  tears  that 
threatened  him,  “It  seems  me  time  to  be  a hero  has  come,  an’  ye’ve 
brought  it.  Havin’  never  had  the  chance  afore.  I’ve  no  mind  to  lose 
it.  I give  ye  my  hand  on  it,  Tim,  I’ll  never  touch  the  stuff  agin  all  me 
life,  so  help  me.” 

Tim  ignored  the  hand  his  father  extended  as  he  flung  both  arms 
about  his  neck  with  a whoop.  “I  tell  ye  what,  daddy,  I wouldn’t  swap 
yer  for  the  best  of  ’em  ! Ye’r  a gen’lmen  !” 

It  was  late  afternoon  when  Johnny  Swavoke  turned  the  corner  to 
the  river  and  sent  out  a shrill  whistle  in  front  of  the  “Barracks.”  Tim 
answered  it.  “My  daddy’s  stopped  the  drink  foriver,”  he  yelled  at  sight 
of  Johnny’s  face.  “Hurrah  for  the  Fourth  of  July!” 

“Hurrah  I”  joined  in  the  small  Pole.  “Meester  Hay  he  see  my  fader 
an’  he  sign  heem  name  to  de  pledge.  He  glide  name  — he  keep  eet. 
There  ees  a talk  at  de  Settl’ment  to-night.  I am  to  tell  all  to  come.  There 
ees  museek,  an’  talk,  an’  de  Abr’am  Linkum  pledge ; lemonade,  an’  ice 
cream,  an’  cake,  Mees  Breivster  say  so.  Say,”  leaning  nearer  and  whis- 
pering, “she  call  me  hero!  — Deed  your  father  wallop  hard.  Teem?” 

“You  bet  he  did,  but  he  was  sorry,  an’  it  didn’t  hurt  much  after  he 
promised  not  to  drink  any  more.  He  sai's  I am  a hearo,  an’  so  does 
the  captain’s  wife.  I tell  you,  Johnny,  this  is  the  day  of  my  life ! What 
you  may  call  livin’!  I never  knew  afore  what  the  joys  of  the  patriot  -umr, 
but  I’ve  struck  ’em,  an’  it’s  worth  a wallopin’ ! I’d  take  it  agin,  and’ 
twict  as  hard,  at  the  same  price.” — Mrs.  S.  R.  Graham  Clarke  in  Union 
Signal. 

A FATEFUL  NEW  YEAR. 

Four  beautiful  girls  were  chatting  eagerly  over  their  dessert  in 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


281 


Judge  Carroll’s  elegant  dining  room.  “Surely,  Edith,  you  would  not 
serve  wine,  real  wine !”  exclaimed  one  of  them,  a lovely  blonde,  whose 
color,  like  the  delicate  tinting  of  a shell,  cam.e  and  went  in  her  fair  face 
with  every  shade  of  feeling. 

“Don’t  be  fussy,  Grace,”  quickly  replied  another,  a perfect  contrast 
in  looks  and  manner,  and  evidently  Grace’s  sister,  from  the  freedom  with 
which  she  chided  her  whenever  their  opinions  differed.  “For  my  part, 
I should  like  to  see  a real  New  Year’s  reception,  wine  and  all,  such  as 
we  do  not  have  the  opportunity  to  see  in  our  little  village.” 

“Of  course,  Betty,  and  that  is  why  we  planned  to  receive  this  year. 
The  custom  is  going  out  so  that  we  had  concluded  to  omit  it,  until  we 
knew  that  you  were  coming.”  This  from  a graceful  girl  of  twenty. 
Judge  Carroll’s  special  pet,  Winnie,  whose  brown  eyes  were  full  of  fun 
and  frolic.  “It  would  be  a shame  to  deprive  the  young  men  of  the 
privilege  of  meeting  our  lovely  guests,  wouldn’t  it,  mamma?” 

“Quite  shameful,”  agreed  Mrs.  Carroll  languidly,  “but  don’t  branch 
out  too  heavily  in  the  matter  of  wines.  Public  opinion  is  changing  so, 
and  really,  the  affair  gets  vulgar  toward  the  end,  don’t  you  think  so  ?” 

Pretty  Edith  shrugged  her  shoulders  expi'essively.  “You  are  think- 
ing of  Tom  Carlton’s  behavior  last  year.  Yes,  decidedly  vulgar,  I must 
say,  but  he  will  not  come  this  year,  I am  sure  of  that.  Win  and  I have 
cut  him  dead  since  then.”  And  a vindictive  little  spark  in  her  eye 
indicated  a sincere  pleasure  in  the  operation. 

The  details  of  the  menu  were  eagerly  entered  into,  and  Grace  listened 
with  an  interest  which  was  only  abated  when  the  wines  were  mentioned ; 
but,  as  a guest,  she  made  no  further  protest. 

The  two  guests  were  daughters  of  a widowed  sister  of  Mrs.  Carroll’s. 
Elizabeth,  commonly  called  Betty,  was  the  more  willful,  decided  character 
of  the  two,  but  Grace,  though  she  said  little,  had  a quiet  force  of 
character  which  was  little  suspected  from  her  less  demonstrative 
exterior.  To-day  in  her  secret  heart  there  was  a firm  determination  not 
to  touch  the  wine  herself  or  to  offer  it  to  any  young  man  at  the  coming 
function. 

The  temperance  teaching  of  the  schools  had  sunk  deep  into  her 
heart,  and,  too,  she  had  seen  the  evil  effects  of  wine  drinking  in  the  lives 
of  others  about  her,  and  she  hated  it.  Betty,  however,  was  willfullv 
blind,  and  of  a nature  to  be  so  intoxicated  with  society  that  she  would 
bow  to  any  of  its  behests,  a willing  slave,  while  Winnie  and  Edith  would 


282 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


tolerate  any  whim  or  excess  of  fashion  so  long  as  it  did  not  merge  into 
the  vulgar,  the  one  fatal  word  in  their  vocabulary.  Drunken  men  were 
vulgar,  but  polite  drinking  quite  the  thing  — and  their  temperance  educa- 
tion had  gone  no  farther. 

Mrs.  Carroll’s  Christmas  gift  to  her  nieces  had  been  two  beautiful 
party  dresses,  and  on  New  Year’s  day  the  quartet  presented  a vision  of 
beauty  as  they  received  their  guests.  The  rooms  were  abloom  with 
flowers,  and  cut  glass  and  silver  sparkled  on  the  tables,  whereon  were 
spread  most  inviting  refreshments. 

The  guests  began  to  arrive,  and  the  scene  was  one  of  brilliant  hos- 
pitality for  the  rest  of  the  afternoon,  and  conversation  for  the  most 
part  purely  conventional.  There  were  exceptions,  however,  and  several 
young  men  lingered  beyond  the  bounds  of  a formal  call.  Among  these 
was  a young  physician,  whose  dark  eyes  rested  on  Grace  with  an 
admiration  which  he  took  no  pains  to  conceal,  as  they  went  out  to  the 
refreshment  room  together. 

She  had  met  him  before,  since  coming  to  the  city,  and  had  formed 
a most  favorable  opinion  of  him,  which  was  heightened  by  observing 
that  he  took  no  wine.  One  of  his  companions  (he  had  come  in  with  a 
party  of  young  men)  was  not  so  abstemious,  however,  and  drank  several 
glasses  of  champagne  with  a relish  which  revealed  much. 

“I  see  you  do  not  join  in  the  convivial  features  of  the  day,”  said 
Dr.  Watson,  as  Grace  nibbled  at  a slice  of  cake  and  turned  down  her 
glass.  The  two  were  sitting  in  a retired  corner  of  the  dining  room. 

“No,  I could  not  and  retain  my  self-respect,”  replied  Grace,  lifting 
her  eyes  to  his. 

“Yet  it  is  quite  the  style  among  ladies,  and  it  makes  it  doubly  hard 
for  us  poor  mortal  men  to  refuse  such  charming  hospitality,”  he  replied. 

“I  should  never  forgive  myself  if  I offered  it  to  you  or  to  any  other 
young  man  who  afterward  came  to  harm.” 

“Then  you  consider  yourself  your  brother’s  keeper?” 

“Yes,  if  you  choose  to  call  it  that.  I certainly  could  not  place  a 
stumbling  block  in  his  way  and  hold  myself  innocent  if  he  fell.” 

“I  wish  that  more  young  women  felt  as  you  do,”  he  replied  earnestly, 
as  he  glanced  at  another  group  where  wine  was  being  served  lavishly. 
Betty,  with  shining  e5'es,  was  the  center,  and  her  gay  laugh  jarred  on  her 
sister’s  ear,  for  one  of  the  party  was  evidently  refusing  the  glass  which 
she  was  urging  upon  him. 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


283 


“A  sad  experience  opened  my  eyes  to  the  evils  of  even  the  most 
moderate  drinking,”  continued  Dr.  Watson,  a look  of  pain  coming  over 
his  expressive  face,  “and  I have  been  a total  abstainer  since.  I should 
not  have  been  making  New  Year’s  calls  to-day  but  for  the  hope  of 
keeping  Tom  Grey  from  excess,  but  what  can  I do  when  lovely  girls  urge 
the  wine  upon  him?  To  tell  the  truth,  this  is  the  first  home  we  have 
entered  where  the  wine  has  been  so  lavishly,  so  beautifully  and  tempt- 
ingly served.” 

“They  do  not  think,  Dr.  Watson  — they  have  never  seen  the  dark 
side  of  the  question.  Do  not  blame  them  too  much,”  Grace  said  earnestly, 
then  flushed  deeply,  remembering  that  she  was  speaking  of  her  own 
sister  and  her  cousin 

Dr.  Watson  was  so  evidently  uneasy  for  his  friend,  that  Grace  was 
relieved  to  see  him  go,  but  before  he  went  he  had  invited  her  to  drive 
with  him  the  following  day,  and  her  gentle  heart  was  filled  with  hap- 
piness 

Never  had  Grace  seen  her  beautiful  sister  so  bright,  so  sparkling  with 
wit  as  on  this  day,  and  she  began  to  suspect  that  the  frequent  sips  of  the 
fragrant  wine  was  the  cause  of  Betty’s  unusual  brilliancy.  Her  cheek 
flushed  with  shame  at  the  thought.  In  their  own  quiet  home  life,  wine  as 
a beverage  was  un-known,  but  Betty  seemed  as  much  intoxicated  with 
the  spirit  of  the  day  as  with  the  wine,  and  drank  in  the  compliments, 
the  perfume,  the  music  and  excitement  with  greedy  avidity. 

Grace  was  glad  when  it  was  all  over  and  the  guests  were  gone, 
leaving  them  to  talk  over  the  events  of  the  day  in  the  early  evening. 

“Oh,  you  sly  puss,*”  cried  Edith,  “when  we  have  been  angling  in  the 
deep  waters  of  Dr.  Watson’s  heart  for  the  last  year,  to  come  here  and 
land  our  fish  with  a pin  hook  and  at  the  first  throw.” 

Grace  blushed  deeply,  then  a spark  of  retaliation  crept  into  eyes.  “I 
think  I see  a diamond  on  Winnie’s  hand  that  was  not  there  when  the 
gentlemen  came  in,”  she  replied  demurely,  and  it  was  Winnie’s  turn  to 
blush. 

“Charlie  Markham  evidently  means  to  begin  the  new  year  right,” 
said  Edith  laughingly.  “I  noticed  that  he  refused  even  one  glass  of  wine, 
and  it  is  more  than  likely  that  he  has  his  list  of  resolutions  pinned  up 
over  his  bed  like  a good  little  boy.” 

“Well,  I hope  he  will  keep  them,”  retorted  Winnie,  in  response  to 
the  laugh  at  her  lover’s  expense.  “It  is  certainly  no  disgrace  to  refrain 


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STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


from  those  things,  while  it  may  easily  become  one  to  yield  to  them.  A 
girl  surely  feels  more  secure  with  a man  who  does  not  drink.” 

It  was  Winnie’s  first  leaning  toward  temperance  principles,  and 
Edith  and  Betty  applauded  loudly.  “Hear!  Hear!”  cried  Betty.  “Now 
we  are  equally  divided.  Winnie  and  Grace  on  the  ‘dry’  side,  while  Edith 
and  I represent  personal  liberty,  and  we  shall  see  which  comes  out  ahead 
in  the  race  for  happiness.” 

They  were  still  talking  merrily  when  Judge  Carroll  came  in,  and 
they  could  see  at  the  first  glance  that  he  was  laboring  under  strong 
excitement.  He  glanced  at  the  still  gleaming  tables  and  other  evidences 
of  festivity,  then  beckoned  his  wife  into  the  next  room. 

“Tell  me,  is  Winnie  greatly  interested  in  young  IMarkham?”  he  asked 
earnestly. 

“She  wears  his  ring  and  does  not  deny  her  engagement.  Quite 
likely  he  will  call  upon  you  to-morrow.” 

“No,  he  won’t,  poor  fellow.  How  can  we  tell  her,  Martha?  There 
has  been  a terrible  accident,  and  Tom  Grey  was  instantly  killed.  Young 
Markham  is  just  alive,  and  all  more  or  less  hurt.  It  was  Grey’s  auto 
they  were  in  and  he  insisted  on  driving,  and  they  collided  with  a street 
car.” 

“Oh!  Why,  that  was  Dr.  Watson’s  party!”  ]\Irs.  Carroll’s  eyes 
were  full  of  horror,  and  a vision  arose  before  her : Tom  Grey  in  her 
house,  taking  from  Edith’s  and  Betty’s  fair  hands  the  wine  which  had 
clouded  his  brain  and  carried  him  to  his  death. 

“What  is  it,  father?  What  is  wrong?”  Winnie’s  white  face  appeared 
in  the  doorway,  heavy  with  an  instinctive  foreboding,  for  she  had  caught 
her  mother’s  cry  of  horrified  surprise. 

“Winnie,  my  poor  child ” Then  her  father’s  arms  were  around 

her  while  he  broke  the  sad  tidings  as  gently  as  he  could.  For  a few 
minutes  all  was  confusion,  for  Winnie  had  fainted  and  the  other  girls 
were  so  shocked  and  helpless  that  they  were  of  no  use  whatever. 

“To  think  that  I poured  that  last  glass  for  Tom  Grey  myself,”  sobbed 
Edith.  “His  poor  mother,  and  Janet!  He  was  their  idol.” 

Betty  had  no  word  of  comfort  to  offer,  feeling  herself  equalh-  guiltv. 
The  two  girls  were  alone  in  the  room  they  occupied  together,  and  Win- 
nie’s heartbroken  sobbing  could  be  heard  just  across  the  hall. 

Winnie  herself  had  not  known  how  deeply  she  was  attached  to  the 
lifight,  winsome  young  man  to  whom  she  had  given  her  hand,  but  Ir's 


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285 


danger  revealed  it  to  her,  and  she  had  gone  from  one  faint  to  another  at 
the  first  shock.  It  was  a terrible  ending  of  the  day  of  merriment  and 
gaiety,  and  Winnie  was  not  alone  in  her  grief.  Grace  learned,  too,  how 
much  she  had  become  interested  in  Dr.  Watson,  and  her  heart  swelled 
with  thankfulness  that  whatever  his  injuries,  they  were  not  caused  by 
any  fault  or  folly  of  his  own,  yet  she  was  consumed  with  anxious  fears, 
for  Judge  Carroll  had  not  learned  how  badly  he  was  hurt. 

All  night  she  ministered  to  Winnie’s  needs  with  patient,  loving  care, 
and  the  two  girls  became  better  acquainted  through  sorrow  than  they 
would  have  done  in  months  of  ordinary  living.  A cheering  message  came 
from  the  hospital  in  the  morning.  “Mr.  Markham  is  alive  and  con- 
scious. We  hope  for  the  best.”  But  at  the  best,  there  was  suffering 
and  danger  for  him  and  keen  anxiety  for  Winnie,  and  the  gay  butterfly  of 
fashion  and  pleasure  was  transformed  to  a sad-hearted  girl  with  the 
heart  of  a woman  in  her  young  breast. 

It  was  a welcome  relief  when  Dr.  Watson  called  during  the  day. 
His  arm  was  in  a sling  and  an  ugly  bruise  marred  his  forehead,  but 
otherwise  he  was  unharmed.  His  face  was  full  of  deep  sadness  as  he 
talked  of  his  friends.  “There  is  a terrible  house  at  the  Grey’s,”  he  said, 
“Mrs.  Grey  is  in  such  agonies  of  self-reproach  that  her  reason  is  in 
danger.  She  has  always  served  wine  at  her  table  and  in  her  cooking 
until  very  recently,  and  she  blames  herself  entirely  for  Tom’s  habits. 
Janet  and  his  father  are  prostrated  with  grief.” 

“Such  a mercy  you  were  not  all  killed,”  shuddered  Mrs.  Carroll. 

“Yes,  we  should  not  have  allowed  Tom  to  run  the  machine  for  a 
moment  in  the  condition  he  was  in,  but  it  was  his  own,  and  how  could 
we  prevent  it  without  a scene?” 

“And  a most  unpleasant  one,”  assented  Mrs.  Carroll. 

“It  is  a lesson  — a costly  lesson,”  and  Dr.  Watson  looked  over  at 
Grace,  ‘but  I think  none  of  us  will  ever  forget  it.” 

The  days  passed  by,  the  round  of  pleasure  which  had  been  planned 
quite  forgotten  in  the  anxious  suspense  which  Winnie  was  suffering. 

Charlie  Markham  crept  up  from  death’s  door,  a white  shadow  of  his 
former  rugged,  rollicking  self,  but  Winnie  was  too  glad  to  make  com- 
plaint. Dr.  Watson  accompanied  the  girls  to  their  home,  and  Mrs.  Cul- 
ver was  glad  to  welcome  him  as  a son.  The  outcome  of  the  fateful  New 
Year’s  day  has  been  that  there  are  two  new  homes  established  on  strictly 


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STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


temperance  principles,  and  from  the  others  the  wine  glass  has  been 
banished  forever. — Mrs.  F.  M.  Howard,  in  Union  Signal. 

GRANNY  HOBART’S  EASTER. 

“Well,  for  my  part,”  said  Mrs.  Wiggin,  with  emphasis,  one  hand  on 
the  door-knob,  “I  think  it’s  right  and  proper  to  make  all  the  fuss  about 
Easter  that’s  possible : flowers  and  birds  and  children  speaking  and  sing- 
ing. There  can’t  be  too  much  of  it  for  me.  I think  everybody  should  be 
glad  at  Easter.” 

“If  they  kin,”  sighed  Granny  Hobart,  from  her  chair  by  the  win- 
dow. “But  it  ain’t  everybuddy  that  kin.” 

“I’m  not  believing  that,  Mrs.  Hobart,”  was  the  crisp  reply.  “If 
people  won’t  look  at  their  mercies,  why,  they  won’t,  and  nobody  but 
themselves  to  blame.  The  Lord  has  provided  enough  kindness  to  make 
us  all  glad,  but  He  don’t  force  us  to  be.  Think  what  our  state  would 
be  if  Jesus  had  never  risen  from  the  dead.  It  just  makes  my  heart  sing 
when  I think  of  Peter  and  John  and  how  their  sorrow  was  turned  into 
joy  by  the  wonderful  miracle  of  the  resurrection.” 

“Yes,”  quavered  Granny,  a break  in  her  thin  treble,  “I  know  it’s 
wonnerful,  but  — but  I’m  kinder  used  to  it.  He’s  allers  been  risen 
sence  I knowed  ennythin’  about  Him.  Seems  ’sif  I couldn’t  no  how  be 
satisfied  with  no  Easter  agin  till  God  raises  somebuddy  else  from  the 
dead  — somebuddy  dead  in  trespasses  ah’  sins,”  a sob  shaking  the  old 
voice. 

Mary  Hobart  rose  from  the  table  at  which  she  was  sewing  and 
swiftly  reached  Granny’s  side.  One  hand  smoothed  the  thin  white  locks 
tenderly  as  she  addressed  their  neighbor: 

“Mother  loves  the  Lord,  Mrs.  Wiggin,”  she  said,  “and  she’s  as  glad 
as  anybody  that  there’s  an  Easter,  but  — but  she’s  always  thinking  of 
Billy.” 

“She’s  old,”  answered  the  visitor,  “and  I suppose  the  Lord  takes 
that  into  consideration.  But  I do  wonder  she  hasn’t  got  reconciled  to 
things  in  all  these  years.” 

“I’ll  never  be  reconciled  to  the  works  o’  the  devil.  Tell  her  to  mind 
that,  Mary,”  cried  the  old  lady,  bridling.  “Theer’s  some  things  the  Lord 
doesn’t  want  us  to  be  reconciled  to  — He  isn’t  Himself.  I’ll  never  be 
satisfied  till  I see  my  poor  lost  boy  raised  from  the  dead.” 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


287 


Long  after  the  departure  of  the  neighbor,  and  after  her  mother  had 
been  soothed  into  apparent  forgetfulness  of  her  late  emotion,  Mary 
Hobart’s  faithful  heart  still  vibrated  to  the  pain  newly  stirred  within 
her  and  her  eyes  filled  again  and  again  as  she  pondered  the  page  of 
the  past  that  had  been . so  ruthlessly  turned  back  that  afternoon.  A 
bright,  boyish  face  looked  up  to  her  from  that  page. 

“Such  a noble,  lovable  darling !”  she  whispered  with  fresh  tears. 
“Annie’s  baby!  He  missed  his  mother.  How  could  I take  her  place? 
Lord,  forgive  me  if  I was  to  blame  for  his  downfall.  I trusted  John  — 
perhaps  he  didn’t  think  — or  — know  — I hate  to  blame  him.  But  Billy 
never  would  have  stolen  John’s  money  if  he  had  not  first  learned  to 
love  John’s  cider.” 

Granny  folded  her  hands  beside  her  plate,  when  a little  later  the 
supper  table  was  drawn  to  her  side,  and  closing  her  eyes,  she  said  sim- 
ply : “Lord',  it  can’t  be  hard  for  Thee  to  bring  Thy  lost  ones  home. 
I know  you’ll  not  forgit  Billy.” 

The  choir  met  that  evening  in  the  village  church  to  practice  anthems 
for  the  next  day.  Jessie  Farman  was  the  contralto,  John  Barton  the 
tenor.  None  were  conscious  of  any  listener  other  than  their  little  circle, 
but  hidden  from  sight  in  a corner  pew,  sat  a young  man.  He  was 
only  a poor  prodigal  who  had  come  to  himself  several  months  before  in 
a distant  city  mission.  A sweet- voiced  woman  — one  who  wore  a 
white  ribbon  on  her  breast,  such  as  his  mother  used  to  wear  before 
she  slipped  away  to  the  angels  — urged  him  to  confess  his  sins  and  start 
a new  life. 

“What  use  to  confess  to  God,”  he  answered,  “while  unwilling  to 
confess  to  man?  I am  not  ready.” 

“If  you  confess  to  God,  He  will  help  you  to  confess  to  man,”  she 
had  declared ; but  he  had  shaken  his  head  doubtfully  and  had  gone  away, 
but  not  to  rest.  The  conviction  that  had  taken  hold  of  him  would  not 
let  go.  He  had  reached  this  village  only  one  short  half-hour  before 
intending  to  go  immediately  to  the  man  he  had  wronged,  but  the  fair 
face  of  a girl  had  diverted  him  from  his  purpose,  had  led  him  into  this 
hiding  place  in  the  old  church. 

“She’s  the  right  kind  — the  only  kind  I could  love,”  he  was  saying 
to  himself,  despairingly,  as  he  listened  to  her  voice.  “She’ll  make  one  of 
those  God-women,  like  that  one  at  the  mission.  Well,  that  dream’s 


288 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


over,  but  I’ll  make  a clean  breast  of  it,  pardon  or  prison,”  he  determined 
with  set  teeth,  “I’ve  got  to  be  able  to  endure  myself.” 

“He  breaks  the  power  of  death; 

He  sets  the  captive  free,” 

sang  the  contralto. 

“Friends,”  said  the  old  minister,  who  had  come  in  unexpectedly  at 
the  close  of  the  rehearsal,  “I  want  you  to  sing  a hymn  directly  after  the 
anthem  to-morrow.  I dropped  in  on  purpose  to  propose  it.  It’s  an 
old  hymn,  but  I can’t  get  rid  of  the  impression  that  some  poor  sinner 
hearing  it  may  realize  that  there’s  a resurrection  for  him.” 

The  man  in  the  corner  pew  felt  the  tears  spring  to  his  eyes  as  he 
listened  to  the  tender  strains  that  followed : 

“Though  your  sins  be  as  scarlet, 

Though  your  sins  be  as  scarlet. 

They  shall  be  as  white  as  snow.” 

A thrill  went  through  the  singers  themselves,  as  Jessie  Farman’s 
voice  lifted  the  refrain.  The  tone  was  so  pure,  so  tenderly  exultant, 
so  confident.  She  seemed  pleading  with  some  sinning  soul,  pressing  him 
to  believe  her  message.  John  Barton’s  voice  trembled  as  he  accompanied 
her.  What  friends  she  and  Billy  had  always  been.  He  suddenly  recalled 
one  afternoon  long  ago,  when  she  had  stopped  him  on  the  street  to  say, 
while  indignant  tears  filled  her  brown  eyes,  “I’d  be  ashamed  if  I were 
a big  man  like  you,  Mr.  Barton,  to  be  teaching  bo3"s  to  drink.” 

He  had  laughed  at  her  at  the  time.  Cider  never  hurt  him,  had  not 
hurt  his  father.  He  had  laughed,  too,  at  Mary  Hobart,  when  she 
pleaded  with  him  about  the  matter.  “Some  of  your  white-ribbon  non- 
sense. You  women  must  be  hard  up  for  something  to  fight,  when  3-011 
tackle  a little  innocent  cider.”  He  was  not  so  sure  cider  was  innocent, 
in  the  light  of  after  developments,  but  he  was  hardl3''  willing  to  admit 
that  fact. 

Meanwhile,  the  minister  with  covered  eyes,  stood  praying,  while  he 
listened  to  the  old  hymn;  surely,  if  Jessie  sang  like  that  to-morrow, 
some  wayfaring  soul  must  accept  the  message.  True,  103-al  servant  of 
Christ,  prone  as  we  all  are,  to  put  off  to  another  da3’-  what  God  would 
give  us  now  — close  beside  him  a wanderer  was  even  then  accepting 
the  message. 

John  Barton  went  out  into  the  darkness  of  the  night,  a strange 
tumult  in  his  soul.  Had  he  not  always  been  hard  on  the  man  who 


Sure,  Mr.  Len,  a ram’s  horn  is  a fool  to  it!” 


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289 


sinned?  Yet  what  was  he  himself  but  a sinner?  If  the  Son  of  God, 
the  Lord  of  life  — whom  death  could  not  hold  in  bondage  — could  for- 
give sin  — nay,  sought  diligently  after  straying  ones  that  He  might  for- 
give them,  what  was  he  that  he  should  condemn? 

Pondering,  he  came  to  Mrs.  Hobart’s  cottage.  He  alwa3rs  passed  it 
at  night  when  going  home  from  church.  It  took  him  a trifle  out  of  his 
way,  but  it  had  become  a habit.  It  had  become  a habit,  too,  in  passing, 
to  seek  a glimpse  of  Mary  Hobart’s  face.  One  of  the  curtains  had  not 
been  drawn  to-night.  He  could  see  into  the  sitting-room  where  Granny 
sat  in  her  big  chair,  her  Bible  on  her  knees,  while  her  daughter  sewed 
at  the  table.  Did  John  imagine  it,  or  did  Mary  look  sadder  and  thinner 
than  usual? 

He  hesitated,  halted,  then  walked  in.  “Good  evening,  Granny,”  he 
said  a moment  later,  entering  the  room  where  the  women  sat. 

• “You,  John!”  cried  Mary.  He  wondered  if  the  joy-note  were  really 
in  her  voice  or  if  his  heart-hunger  put  it  there. 

“Me.  I’ve  been  over  to  the  church  practicing,  and  thought  I’d  step 
in  a moment.” 

“Practicing !”  echoed  Granny,  pushing  her  spectacles  excitedly  to  her 
white  locks.  “So  you’re  goin’  to  sing  about  the  risen  Lord  again  to- 
morrer,  John,  with  hatred  in  your  heart  for  them  He  died  to  save?  It’s 
little  comfort  sich  as  you  kin  git  out  o’  Easter.  He  rose  from  the  dead 
an’  entered  into  heaven,  but  He’s  cornin’  agin,  an’  this  time  to  be  the 
Jedge  o’  all  livin’.  It’s  written  — I’ve  jist  been  readin’  it  — Tf  ye  forgive 
not  men  their  trespasses,  neither  will  your  Father  forgive  your  tres- 
passes.’ ” 

“But  I do  forgive.  Granny,”  answered  the  man,  with  solemn  earnest- 
ness, again  following  some  inner  impulse.  “I  forgive  this  night  as  I hope 
to  be  forgiven.” 

“Billy?”  asked  the  women  in  one  breath.  But  John  answered  only 
one  — the  one  whose  gray  eyes  had  lifted  so  quickly,  so  eagerly  to  his 
face. 

“Yes,  Billy,”  he  said,  humbly.  “God  forgive  me,  Mary.  I fee! 
to-night  that  I sinned  against  the  boy  more  than  he  ever  sinned  against 
me.  I taught  him  first  to  drink,  though  I didn’t  intend  it  — never  think 
that  I did.” 

“You’re  a good  man,  John,”  said  Granny,  holding  on  to  the  arms 
of  her  chair  as  she  drew  herself  to  her  feet.  “You’re  a good  man  and 


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STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


know  the  Lord,  though  I’ve  doubted  you  at  times.  Mary,  she  never 
doubted  you.  I’ve  been  mistook  in  a lot  of  things.  I ’most  thought 
that  the  day  of  miracles  was  past,  but  it  seems  it  aint.  Lord,”  lifting 
her  streaming  eyes  to  heaven,  “Lord,  it  can’t  be  enny  harder  for  you 
to  work  two  miracles  than  one.  I’m  sore  tired  o’  waitin’  for  Billy.” 

As  Mary  read  a Psalm  before  retiring  that  night  — her  mother 
already  fast  asleep  — a step  sounded  under  her  window,  some  one  tapped 
on  the  pane.  She  lifted  the  curtain  and  peered  out,  then,  with  one  hand 
over  her  heart,  — as  if  to  still  its  beatings  — she  hurried  to  the  street 
door.  “Billy !”  she  cried  under  her  breath,  as  she  drew  a youth  into  the 
hall  and  into  her  arms. 

It  was  late  when  Granny  woke  next  morning.  The  church  bells 
were  ringing  Billy  had  been  talking  to  his  aunt  for  an  hour  past, 
telling  his  recent  experience.  “I  don’t  know  how  I happened  to  drift  into 
the  mission,  God  must  have  led  me  there.  I found  He  was  able  to  take 
the  love  of  strong  drink  out  of  me  and  then  I knew  I must  come  back 
and  face  my  crime.  Auntie.  I dreaded  to  meet  Barton,  but  it’s  wonder- 
ful what  God  can  do  when  we  trust  him.  John  was  kindness  itself.  He 
treated  me  like  a brother.  I feel  like  a new  man.” 

“Mary,”  called  Granny  just  then,  “Mary,  I’ve  had  a quare  dream. 
I ’most  hate  to  wake  up.  I thought  Billy  was  dead  and  Jesus  brought 
him  back  to  life  and  gave  him  unto  me.” 

“It’s  a true  dream.  Granny,”  cried  Billy,  breaking  away  from  his 
aunt’s  restraining  hand.  “Jesus  has  saved  me  and  sent  me  back  to  you.” 

With  her  old  arms  about  her  boy’s  neck,  her  dim  eyes  fixed  on  his 
face.  Granny  questioned : 

“What  air  the  church  bells  ringin’  for,  Mary?  Have  the  folks  found 
out  our  Billy  has  come  home?” 

“God  has,  mother,”  answered  the  daughter,  gently.  “It’s  Sunday, 
Easter  Sunday.” 

“Easter !”  laughed  Granny  exultantly,”  an’  I was  afeared  to  see  it ! 
It’s  a true  Easter,  Mary,  for  ‘This  my  son  was  dead  and  is  alive  again ; 
he  was  lost  and  is  found !’  ” — Mrs.  S.  R.  Graham  Clarke,  in  Union  Signal. 

WHO  PAYS  IT? 

The  town  board  had  met  to  decide  the  question  of  license  or  no- 
license. They  were  about  equally  divided,  one  or  two  staunch  temper- 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


291 


ance  men,  two  in  favor  of  the  saloon  — on  financial  grounds,  of  course  — 
the  others  neutral  or  only  waiting  to  know  what  their  constituents 
wanted.  And  their  constituents,  very  wisely,  were  there  to  tell  them. 
The  “business  men,”  as  they  called  themselves,  had  a delegation  of  their 
most  respectable  members  and  their  smoothest  speakers  to  represent 
them.  The  temperance  people,  less  wise  in  their  generation,  showed  a 
large  delegation,  too,  but  one  less  impressive  to  the  average  politician. 
Most  of  them  were  women,  many  elderly,  many  shabbily  dressed.  In- 
tensely in  earnest,  they  were,  but  they  had  neither  votes  nor  political 
influence.  For  the  men,  there  were  the  pastors  of  two  or  three  struggling 
churches,  a few  Sunday-school  boys,  not  yet  voters,  two  or  three  white- 
haired  old  fathers  in  Israel  — altogether  a delegation  that  deserved  more 
honor  than  it  was  likely  to  get  there.  They  presented  their  petition. 
Alas,  half  of  the  signatures  were  of  non-voters,  which  discounted  its 
value  terribly.  And  the  ministers,  the  only  ones  used  to  speaking  in 
public,  presented  the  arguments  which  seemed  strongest  to  them;  they 
quoted  Scripture,  they  painted  the  miseries  of  the  drunkard’s  home,  they 
appealed  to  the  board’s  Christianity  — and  the  board  yawned  and  figeted. 
They  had  heard  all  that  before,  many  times. 

Then  the  advocates  of  license  began,  cheery,  brisk  and  confident.  He 
quoted  statutes  to  prove  that  the  well-regulated  saloon  of  our  days 
could  not  produce^  the  dire  results  dreaded  by  his  well-meaning  but 
rather  old-fashioned  opponents.  Of  course,  no  one  wanted  low  doggeries. 
Just  two  or  three  thoroughly  respectable  places,  whose  owners  would 
pride  themselves  on  keeping  everything  quiet  and  unobjectionable.  It 
was  simply  a matter  of  business.  They  had  a beautiful  town  and  fine 
business  prospects,  but  everyone  knew  that  the  sidewalks  were  scan- 
dalously out  of  repair.  And  that  shaky  old  bridge  over  the  creek  was 
really  a menace  to  the  lives  and  limbs  of  the  community.  Who  knew 
how  soon  some  terrible  accident  might  cause  untold  sufferings,  and 
incidentally  make  a big  bill  of  damages  for  the  town?  Main  Street,  too, 
needed  paving  sorely.  The  taxes  were  high  enough  already,  he  would 
admit,  but  just  pass  a high  license,  high  enough  to  shut  out  those  low 
cut-throats  and  dive-keepers,  whom  his  good  brethren  so  justly  feared, 
permitting  three  or  four  high-class  places,  which  would  really  be  an 
ornament  to  the  town,  and  the  license  money  would  put  all  straight. 
Then  they  could  repair  the  sidewalks,  build  a handsome  new  bridge,  and 
pave  at  least  the  worst  part  of  Main  Street,  making  their  little  town  a 


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STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


safe,  handsome,  up-to-date  burg,  of  which  they  might  all  be  proud,  he 
argued  with  rising  eloquence. 

Who  could  be  churlish  enough  to  refuse  these  would-be  public 
benefactors  the  eagerly-sought  privilege  of  enriching  the  town  with  their 
munificent  gifts?  Not  this  board,  evidently.  That  glib  speech,  that 
prospect  of  getting  something  for  nothing,  carried  conviction.  Even 
one  or  two  opponents  of  the  saloon  murmured  doubtfully  that  if  the 
thing  could  easily  be  restrained  to  two  or  three  respectable  places,  it 
might  not  be  so  bad.  Their  cause  was  lost.  Anyone  could  see  that. 
Was  not  half-a-loaf  better  than  no  bread?  On  the  women’s  faces  was 
written  disappointment  or  blank  despair. 

A good  deacon  tried  to  answer  the  argument,  with  the  best  inten- 
tions, but,  alas,  he  was  a poor  speaker,  and  the  board  only  grew  restive 
under  his  long  rambling  sentences,  sweeping  denunciations  and  general 
incoherence.  “Pious,  feeble-minded  cant,”  some  mentally  termed  it. 
Half  a- dozen  sentences  from  the  advocates  of  high-license  and  improve- 
ments more  than  disposed  of  him.  The  case  was  as  good  as  decided, 
when  the  clear-eyed  little  school  mistress  stepped  quickly  forward  from 
where  she  had  been  holding  a whispered  consultation  with  several  women 
who  had  most  to  lose  by  the  re-establishment  of  the  saloon. 

“One  moment,  please,  your  honor,”  she  said  briskly,  though  her  color 
rose  high.  “As  Mr.  Gaylord  puts  it,  this  is  a matter  of  business.  These 
repairs  which  we  need,  cannot  be  paid  without  money,  and  our  property- 
owners  are  not  anxious  to  have  their  taxes  raised.  They  might  grumble 
if  you  did  that,  and  they  might  grumble  if  the  town  incurred  a heavy  bill 
for  damages  through  defective  sidewalks.  IMr.  Gaylord  urges  license  as 
a solution  of  this  problem.  As  you  see,  many  of  the  best  people  in  town 
are  opposed  to  having  saloons,  and  I am  sure  you  would  not  wantonly 
offend  them.  You  would  not  hurt  and  disappoint  all  these  good  ladies 
except  for  gravest  financial  reasons?”  She  paused  inquiringl}". 

“Why,  certainly  not,”  one  hastened  to  protest;  “but  you  see  how  it 
is.  Miss  Pierce.  These  streets  must  be  looked  to.” 

The  others  nodded  quick  assent.  They  had  no  personal  feeling  in 
the  matter ; they  were  exceedingly  sorry  to  disappoint  the  wishes  of  so 
many  of  the  best  people,  but  business  was  business.  These  repairs  must 
be  made,  and  the  community  was  already  overtaxed.  The  little  school 
mistress  listened,  smiling  and  nodding  assent,  even  suggesting  excuses 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


293 


when  the  men  faltered,  till  all  had  spoken,  while  the  temperance  people 
listened  in  dull  despair. 

Then  she  spoke  again  briskly:  “Then  as  you  are  not  personally 
anxious  for  the  saloons,  only  advocating  them  as  a means  for  raising  the 
necessary  revenue,  of  course,  if  the  money  could  be  raised  as  easily  s()me 
other  way,  you  would  not  force  a saloon  upon  the  town  against  the 
expressed  wishes  of  a majority  of  the  people  — all  the  best  people.  Now, 
of  course,  as  business  men,  you  realize  that  the  saloon-keeper  does  not 
intend  to  pay  all  his  profits  into  the  town  treasury  as  license  money.  He 
means  to  have  enough  left,  after  paying  all  expenses,  to  furnish  a hand- 
some living  for  himself  and  family,  and  usually  to  build  a fine  house  in  a 
year  or  two  or  start  a bank  account.  And  the  money  for  all  this  — plate 
glass,  marble,  gas  and  mirrors,  handsome  living,  carriages  and  horses, 
fine  residence,  or  bank  account  — all  must  come  out  of  all  pockets  of  the 
community  as  well  as  the  license  money.  As  any  business  man  will  see  at  a 
glance,  this  is  a tremendously  costly  and  wasteful  way  of  raising  money. 
Mr.  Gaylord  proposes  about  three  saloons,  to  be  kept  in  the  finest  style, 
and  a license  of  two  hundred  dollars  per  annum.  That  will  pay  $600 
into  the  treasury  — but  no  business  man  would  think  of  fittting  up  such 
a place  of  business  unless  he  expected  to  clear  at  least  a thousand  dollars 
a year  from  it,  more  likely  twice  that.  So,  that,  in  order  to  clear  $600 
for  the  repairs  of  our  sidewalks,  our  people  will  really  pay  from  $3,600 
to  $6,000  — even  supposing  said  saloons  cause  no  drunkenness,  no  crime 
and  no  costly  accident. 

“Of  course,  you  see,  gentlemen,  that  it  would  save  thousands  of 
dollars  for  the  people,  to  pay  this  money  direct  into  the  treasury  and  not 
add  all  this  extra  expense.  And  no  doubt  if  the  matter  were  fairly  put 
before  them,  they  would  be  more  than  willing  to  do  so.  What  sensible 
man  is  going  to  pay  out  thousands  of  dollars,  either  individually  or  as 
one  of  a community,  when  a few  hundreds  will  secure  the  same  results? 
I am  sorry  that  we  cannot  see  personally  all  who  are  represented  in  the 
financial  support  of  the  saloon,  but  they  are  fairly  well  represented  here. 
Here  is  Mrs.  Murphy,  who  calculates  that  if  you  have  saloons,  she  will 
be  obliged  to  contribute  at  least  a dollar  a week  for  their  support  from 
her  earnings  at  the  washtub.  That  is  what  she  had  to  do  when  we  had 
saloons  last  time — through  her  good  husband,  of  course.  Now,  she 
would  very  much  prefer,  if  you  insist  on  her  paying  $50  toward  the 
repair  of  the  sidewalks  and  the  bridge,  that  you  would  not  license 


294 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


saloons,  but  would  permit  her  to  pay  her  money  directly  into  the 
treasury.  It  would  be  cheaper  for  her,  as  in  that  case  her  husband 
could  be  supporting  the  family  while  she  is  earning  the  $50,  instead  of 
their  nearly  starving,  as  they  must  if  it  goes  through  the  saloon  and 
keeps  Pat  lying  around  drunken  and  idle.” 

“Thru  for  you,  miss,  to  say  nothing  of  the  childer-and  smashing  the 
chairs  and  tables  when  he’s  on  a bit  of  a spree.  Bad  cess  to  the  rich 
folks  that’s  too  mean  to  mend  their  own  sidewalks  widout  takin’  the 
money  a poor  woman’s  slaved  at  the  washtub  for;  but  if  they  must, 
there’s  no  nade  of  makin’  her  man  a drunken  baste  to  boot,”  Mrs. 
Murphy  declared  emphatically. 

The  board  looked  uncomfortable,  and  one  stammered  out  something 
about  “nothing  of  the  sort  wanted  — speak  to  the  saloon-keeper  — law 
provides,”  but  the  little  school  mistress  went  briskly  on,  not  seeming  to 
hear : 

“And  Mrs.  Wilson  here  figures  out  that  it  will  cost  her  and  her 
husband  about  $200  this  year,  if  you  grant  licenses.  At  least  that  is 
what  it  did  last  time,  counting  lost  time  and  all.  She  thinks  you  might 
be  content  with  $150  from  them,  seeing  that  they  are  poor  folks  with 
three  small  children,  but  they  would  give  you  their  note  for  $200  sooner 
than  be  obliged  to  pay  the  whole  $200  through  the  saloon.” 

“Yes,  yes,”  sobbed  a poor  woman  with  a baby  in  her  arms.  “We 
need  the  money  bad  enough,  God  knows,  with  so  much  sickness  and  all, 
but  if  you’ll  make  out  a note,  we’ll  sign  sooner  than  have  the  saloon 
take  it  all  and  drag  him  to  destruction  besides.  There  never  was  a 
better  husband  and  father  than  Tom,  and  he  don’t  want  to  drink,  but 
if  it’s  stuck  under  his  nose  when  he  is  so  sick  and  miserable,  he  can’t 
help  it.” 

“Any  man  can  help  making  a beast  of  himself  if  he  wants  to,” 
growled  one  of  the  board,  with  a very  red  face. 

The  poor  wife’s  wrath  blazed  up  instantly. 

“Yes,  that’s  easy  for  you  to  say  — you  that  are  fat  and  hearty  and 
wdl-dressed,  with  nothing  to  do  but  sit  around  and  talk  business.  Wait 
till  you  are  sick  and  poor  and  shivering  for  want  of  warm  clothes,  and 
worn  out  working  all  day  and  watching  a sick  child  half  the  night,  till 
you  feel  as  if  you  could  hardly  drag  one  foot  after  another.  Then  you’ll 
know  what  temptation  is.  Oh,  you  can’t  tax  the  rich  folks  to  fix  up 
your  streets,  of  course  not,  but  you  take  it  out  of  us  that  can  hardly  keep 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


295 


ourselves  alive ! It’s  bread  out  of  the  mouths  of  hungry  children  and  the 
shoes  from  their  frost-bitten  feet  and  the  flesh  off  the  poor  little  scrawny 
bodies  that  you  take  to  pa,ve  your  streets  to  save  your  own  miserable 
purses !”  she  screamed  hysterically.  “And  you  can’t  be  content  with  that 
even,  but  you  must  have  immortal  souls,  too ! Take  the  bread  and 
clothes  and  the  flesh  off  their  bones,  if  you  must,  but  in  God’s  name 
leave  them  their  father,  their  loving,  faithful,  hard-working  father !” 

She  dropped  into  a chair,  sobbing  wildly,  while  the  child  screamed 
in  terror.  The  board  mopped  their  crimson  faces  and  looked  desperate. 
Mr.  Gaylord  spoke  hastily: 

“My  good  woman,  you  are  distressing  yourself  unnecessarily.  I have 
already  explained  to  you  that  the  statute  permits  a wife  to  forbid  the 
sale  of  liquor  to  her  husband.  I will  myself  make  sure  that  each 
applicant  for  license  understands  the  provisions  of  the  law  in  these 
cases.  Mrs.  Murphy  and  Mrs.  Wilson  have  only  to  see  these  men  and 
express  their  wishes,  and  their  families  will  be  as  safe  as  if  there  wasn’t 
a saloon  within  a thousand  miles.” 

“And  is  there  a man  living  grane  ’nough  to  expect  a saloon-kaper 
to  kape  the  law?”  asked  Mrs.  Murphy,  derisively.  “Hasn’t  it  been  tried 
over  and  over  again  by  them  as  hadn’t  any  more  sinse?  Promise,  is  it? 
Sure,  they  might  promise  as  fast  as  a man  running  for  office,  but  devil 
a bit  more  would  they  kape  their  word.  It’s  my  fifty  dollars  they’d 
kape,  and  all  Pat  could  earn  to  boot.” 

Before  he  could  answer,  the  little  school  mistress  was  speaking  again. 

“And  here  is  Miss  Nettie  Stone,  who  cannot  tell  exactly  how  much 
hard  cash  the  saloon  will  cost’  her,  but  it  will  certainly  oblige  her  to 
support  her  invalid  mother  and  little  sister  entirely  out  of  her  earnings 
in  the  millinery  shop,  while,  if  there  is  no  saloon,  her  brother  will  take 
part  of  the  burden.  But  she  knows  it  cannot  be  less  than  fifty  or  sixty 
dollars  — probably  much  more,  for  if  her  brother  begins  drinking  again, 
her  mother  will  die ; and  though  I don’t  wish  to  incur  your  honor’s  con- 
tempt by  appearing  sentimental,  I may  remark  that  funeral  expenses 
come  high.  She  would  contribute  $30,  or  $40  if  necessary,  toward  street 
repairs  rather  than  lose  so  much,  but  considering  that  she  is  an  orphan 
girl,  not  overly  strong  and  the  main  support  of  her  mother  and  sister,  I, 
thought,  perhaps,  you  would  be  content  with  $25  from  her.” 

“But  I’d  pay  thirty  or  even  fifty  sooner  than  have  the  saloons,” 
broke  in  the  pale-faced  girl  passionately.  “It  isn’t  the  money  — it’s 


296 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


mother.  It  will  kill  her  if  Ralph  gets  to  drinking  again,,  and  he  will  if 
you  get  those  respectable  saloons.  I wouldn’t  care  how  many  low, 
dirty  doggeries  you  had ; you  might  cram  the  town  with  them,  and  Ralph 
would  only  be  disgusted.  You  couldn’t  hire  him  to  go  in.  But  these 
high-class  places,  with  their  flowers  and  music  and  billiard  tables  — why, 
you  know  you  can’t  keep  the  boys  out  of  them.  Half  the  boys  in  town 
will  be  drinking  before  the  year  is  over.  It  will  break  mother’s  heart 
and  kill  her.  O,  for  God’s  sake,  can’t  you  let  us  raise  the  money  some 
other  way?” 

“Very  dramatic,  very  touching!”  Mr.  Gaylord  interposed  sarcastic- 
ally. “But  all  this  is  not  business.  These  ladies  know  perfectly  that 
their  self-sacrificing  ofifers  will  not  be  accepted.  Possibly  they  would 
not  be  made  so  readily  but  for  that  knowledge.  If  all  this  eloquence 
were  kept  for  the  beloved  ones  at  home,  it  would  be  more  fitting  and 
probably  more  effective.” 

“And  where  were  you  brought  up,  young  man,  to  belave  that?” 
demanded  Mrs.  Murphy,  with  arms  akimbo.  “Sure,  a young  feller  that 
knows  no  more  of  min  that  thot,  ought  to  be  at  home  with  his  ma,  or 
he’ll  get  chated  out  of  his  eye-tayth.  And  any  man  that  saj^s  Kate 
Murphy  don’t  mane  what  she  says,  is  a liar.  Won’t  be  accepted?  And 
why  not,  sure?  If  ye  have  a saloon,  ye’ll  take  it,  I know  thot.” 

“Begging  your  pardon,  but  it  is  just  business,  INIr.  Gaylord,”  said 
the  little  school  mistress  decisively.  “These  ladies  mean  just  what  they 
say.  Of  course,  they  would  not  pay  out  this  money,  but  they  consider 
it  would  be  cheaper  and  easier  to  pay  it  direct  in  this  way  than  to  pay  it 
through  the  saloon,  as  they  must  if  your  plan  is  adopted.  I pledge  my 
salary  as  guarantee  of  their  good  faith.  Will  your  honors  please  have 
your  secretary  to  note  down  names  and  amounts?  Mrs.  Kate  iMurphy, 
$50;  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Tom  Wilson,  $150;  Miss  Nettie  Stone,  $50;  Grandma 
Gage,  $15.  Grandma  has  no  drinker  in  her  own  family,  happily,  but 
says  she  will  have  to  give  more  than  that  to  the  poor  family  next  door 
if  their  father  goes  to  drinking  again,  and  she  would  rather  pay  it  in  this 
way  than  have  the  poor  things  beaten  and  ill-used.  Airs.  Dr.  Black 
thinks  $50  is  all  she  can  afford  for  the  streets,  though  if  you  decide  for 
license,  it  will  cost  her  husband  over  $100  in  bad  bills  that  he  will  then 
be  unable  to  collect;  Airs.  Eleanor  Denslow,  $150 ” 

“This  is  all  nonsense,  a ridiculous  farce !’’  Air.  Gaylord  broke  in 
angrily.  “Do  you  expect  us  to  believe  that  these  poor  women,  hardly 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


297 


able  to  keep  themselves  off  the  town,  are  going  to  pay  these  sums? 
Preposterous  ! They  can’t  do  it,  they  haven’t  any  idea  of  doing  it.  They 
only  want  to  throw  dust  in  the  eyes  of  the  board.  The  men  I represent 
mean  what  they  say  and  have  the  money  to  lay  down  on  the  spot. 
Promises  are  cheap  at  best,  but  promises  from  those  who  can’t  possibly 
fulfill  them  are  a little  too  much.” 

“When  women  offer  everything  they  have  in  the  world  to  save 
their  loved  ones  from  destruction,  it  is  a tragedy,  not  a farce,  Mr.  Gay- 
lord,” said  Mrs.  Densmore,  tremulously.  “Gentlemen,  the  last  time  this 
town  went  for  license,  I had  two  noble  sons  and  a little  property.  In 
two  years  the  saloon  took  every  dollar  we  had  laid  by,  our  little  farm  — 
and  my  eldest  son.  Thank  God,  he  lived  long  enough  after  the  accident 
to  die  repentant  and  forgiven.  None  the 'less,  the  saloon  killed  him,  my 
brave,  bright  boy ! If  you  license  saloons  this  year,  I shall  lose  every- 
thing I have  left  — my  tiny  home  and  my  one  remaining  son.  I only 
beg  of  you  to  be  content  with  taking  the  home  and  leave  me  my  boy. 
Surely,  that  is  not  too  much  for  a mother  to  ask  of  Christian  men. 

“I  mean  just  what  I say,  gentlemen.  Pledge  yourselves  solemnly 
that  there  shall  be  no  saloons  this  year  and  within  two  hours  I will  lay 
down  the  hard  cash  on  this  table,  though  I must  mortgage  everything 
I own  in  the  world  to  raise  it.” 

“And  I will  give  you  my  personal  note,  pledging  my  salary  as 
security,  that  these  other  ladies  will  keep  their  word,”  the  school  mistress 
added  briskly.  “There  will  be  no  difficulty  in  finding  some  one  who 
will  be  my  security.  We  will  pay  quarterly  as  the  saloon-keepers  would. 
Of  course,  we  shall  desire  a written  contract  from  you;  that  is  only 
business.  I could  have  wished  that  more  of  those  who  must  pay  the 
saloon  revenues  had  been  here.  It  is  scarcely  fair  that  less  than  a dozen 
hardworking  women  should  do  it  all,  still  it  is  cheaper  for  them  than  to 
help  support  saloons.  But  I haven’t  finished  my  list;  Miss  Grace  For- 
syth, $25 ” 

“That  little  cripple,  $25  ! Ridiculous  ! Better  say  25  cents !”  snapped 
Mr.  Gaylord. 

“It  is  a large  sum  for  a sickly  girl  to  earn  with  her  needle,  I am 
aware.  But  not  half  what  she  must  earn  to  keep  the  family  from 
starvation,  if  you  have  saloons  to  take  her  father’s  wages  and  waste  his 
time.  Then  Miss  Jennie  Drew  thinks  she  can  better  afford  to  give  you 
$40  than  to  half  support  her  sister’s  family,  as  she  was  obliged  to  last 


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STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


time,  and  it  will  be  so  much  better  for  the  children.  Mrs.  A.  M.  Gray ” 

“We  really  cannot  let  these  poor  sisters  do  it  all,”  interrupted  one  of 
the  pastors,  rising  to  the  occasion.  “I  think  I am  perfectly  safe  in  pledg- 
ing my  congregation  for  a hundred  dollars.  We  have  never  seen  the 
matter  in  just  this  light  before,  but  I will  lay  it  before  them  next  Sun- 
day, if  Miss  Pierce  will  kindly  assist  me,  and  I am  so  sure  of  their  action 
that  sooner  than  have  your  honorary  body  hesitate,  I will  give  my  note 
for  that  amount  now.” 

“And  I’ll  go  security,’  declared  the  deacon,  thumping  the  table 
emphatically.  “We’ll  save  money  by  it,  too.  Had  to  pay  out  nearly 
that  much  last  year  to  help  Sister  Vale’s  family  through  while  her  hus- 
band was  in  jail,  besides  all  the  groceries  and  clothing  our  Charity  and 
Help  Committee  had  to  give  out  that  winter.” 

“Fanaticism  run  mad !”  growled  Mr.  Gaylord.  “What’s  the  need  of 
charity  in  a town  where  washwomen,  shop  girls,  and  seamstresses  go 
begging  for  the  privilege  of  throwing  money  away?  Very  dramatic,  my 
dear  ladies  ! But  rather  too  stagy  for  every-day  life  !” 

“It  is  precisely  because  they  are  too  poor  to  throw  away  money,  that 
they  wish,  since  they  are  obliged  to  pay  for  the  repair  of  the  streets, 
to  do  it  in  the  cheapest  and  easiest  way.  There  is  no  fanaticism  about  it. 
Just  plain  business,”  Miss  Pierce  began  resolutely,  but  Mrs,  Murphy 
broke  in : 

‘And  what  odds  does  it  make  to  their  honors  whether  we  hand  them 
the  money  straight  or  whether  the  saloon  man  takes  it  out  av  our 
pockets  to  thim  — wid  a hape  of  it  stickin’  to  his  own  dirty  fingers? 
But  it’s  meself  can  see  why  ye  don’t  want  us  to  do  it  in  the  cheapest  way. 
It’s  a share  in  one  av  the  saloons  ye’d  have,  and  the  big  end  av  me  $50 
in  yer  own  pocket.  And  that’s  why  ye’re  trying  to  bamboozle  their 
honors  into  belaving  that  black  is  white.” 

“Great  guesser,  isn’t  she?”  cried  one  of  the  “business”  delegation, 
clapping  his  hand  heavily  on  Gaylord’s  shoulder,  and  several  of  them 
who  had  been  growing  uncomfortably  sober  for  the  last  ten  minutes, 
broke  into  a loud  laugh  at  their  spokeman’s  expense.  Plainly  her  chance 
shot  had  hit  the  mark. 

“Count  on  my  church  for  another  fifty,”  said  another  pastor.  “We 
are  not  very  well  off,  but  we’ll  do  that  much  for  the  salvation  of  souls.” 

“There  will  be  no  license  granted  this  year !”  suddenly  and  decidedly 
spoke  out  one  of  the  board  hitherto  regarded  as  neutral,  if  not  actually 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


299 


a friend  of  the  saloon,  and  looked  defiantly  at  his  colleagues.  One  sat 
sullenly  silent,  another  muttered  sourly,  but  the  others  nodded  a hasty, 
relieved  assent. 

“Neither  -will  we  trouble  any  of  you  for  forced  contributions,”  he 
went  on.  “We  are  very  much  obliged  to  Miss  Pierce  for  her  striking 
presentation  of  the  case,  and  we  don’t  question  the  sincerity  of  any  of  the 
ladies,  but  if  the  men  who  own  property  in  this  town  can’t  pay  for  their 
own  sidewalks,  they  can  go  without.” 

And  once  more  his  colleagues  nodded  assent  in  real  relief. 

“We  want  to  do  what  the  people  want  done,  that’s  all,”  said  the 
chairman  of  the  board,  another  neutral,  hastily.  “Of  course,  no  civilized 
man  wants  this  sort  of  thing,  not  if  he  understands  it  straight.  Good-day, 
ladies.  Keep  your  money  for  yourselves  and  your  families,  and  if  any- 
body grumbles  because  he  can’t  get  his  sidewalk  for  nothing,  we’ll  refer 
him  to  Miss  Pierce  or  Mrs.  Murphy.  Now,  gentlemen,  what  is  the  next 
business  to  consider?” — Ada  E.  Ferris  in  Tract. 


PART  II 

INCIDENTS 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


303 


ONLY  A VOTE. 

A local  option  contest  was  going  on  in  W , and  Mrs.  Kent  was 

trying  to  influence  her  husband  to  vote  “No  License.”  Willie  Kent,  six 
years  old,  was,  of  course,  on  his  mamma’s  side.  The  night  before  elec- 
tion Mr.  Kent  went  to  see  Willie  safe  in  bed,  and  hushing  his  prattle, 
he  said : “Now,  Willie,  say  your  prayers.” 

“Papa,  I want  to  say  my  own  words  tonight,”  he  replied.  “All  right, 
my  boy,  that  is  the  best  kind  of  praying,”  answered  the  father. 

Fair  was  the  picture,  as  Willie,  robed  in  white,  knelt  at  his  father’s 
knee  and  prayed  reverently : “O  dear  Jesus,  do  help  papa  to  vote  ‘No 
Whiskey’  tomorrow.  Amen.” 

Morning  came,  the  village  was  alive  with  excitement.  Women’s 
hands,  made  hard  by  toil,  were  stretched  to  God  for  help  in  the  decision. 

The  day  grew  late,  and  yet  Mr.  Kent  had  not  been  to  the  polls. 
Willie’s  prayer  sounded  in  his  ears,  and  troubled  conscience  said:  “An- 
swer your  boy’s  petition  with  your  ballot.” 

At  last  he  stood  at  the  polling-place  with  two  tickets  in  his  hand  — 
one  License;  the  other  No  License.  Sophistry,  policy,  avarice,  said: 
“Vote  License.”  Conscience  echoed : “No  License.”  After  a moment’s 
hesitation,  he  threw  from  him  the  No  License  ticket  and  put  the  License 
in  the  box. 

The  next  day  it  was  found  that  the  contest  was  so  close  that  it 
needed  but  one  vote  to  carry  the  town  for  prohibition.  In  the  afternoon 
Willie  found  a No  License  ticket,  and,  having  heard  only  one  vote  was 
necessary,  he  started  out  to  find  the  man  who  would  cast  this  one  ballot 
against  wrong,  and  in  his  eagerness  he  flew  along  the  streets. 

The  saloon  men  were  having  a jubilee,  and  the  highways  were  filled 
with  drunken  rowdies.  Little  Willie  rushed  on  through  the  unsafe 
crowd. 

Hark ! a random  pistol-shot  from  a drunken  quarrel,  a pierced  heart, 
and  sweet  Willie  Kent  had  his  death-wound. 

They  carried  him  home  to  his  mother.  His  father  was  quickly  sum- 
moned, and  the  first  swift  thought  that  came  to  him,  as  he  stood  over 
his  lifeless  boy,  was : “Willie  will  never  pray  again  that  I may  vote  No 
Whiskey.” 

With  a strange,  still  grief  he  took  in  his  own  the  quiet  little  hand, 
chilling  into  marble  coldness,  and  there  between  the  fingers,  firmly 


304  STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


clasped,  was  the  No  License  ballot  with  which  the  brave  little  soul  ; 
thought  to  change  the  verdict  of  yesterday.  | 

Mr.  Kent  started  back  in  shame  and  sorrow.  That  vote  in  his  hand 
might  have  answered  the  prayer  so  lately  on  his  lips,  now  dumb,  and  ' 
perhaps  averted  the  awful  calamity.  Fathers,  may  not  the  hands  of  the 
“thousands  slain”  make  mute  appeal  to  you?  Your  vote  is  what  God  < 


requires  of  you.  You  are  as  responsible  for  it  being  in  harmony  with 
His  law,  as  if  on  it  hung  the  great  decision. — Touching  Incidents  and  ;• 
Remarkable  Answers  to  Prayer.  . 

NEW  SHOES. 

“I  wonder  if  there  can  be  a pair  of  shoes  in  it !” 

Little  Tim  sat  on  the  ground  close  beside  a very  ugly  dark-colored 
stone  jug.  He  eyed  it  sharply,  but  finding  it  quite  impossible  to  see  ;; 
through  its  sides,  pulled  out  the  cork  and  peered  anxiously  in.  “Can’t 
see  nothin’,  but  it’s  so  dark  in  there  I couldn't  see  if  there  was  any-  • 
thing.  I’ve  a great  mind  to  break  the  hateful  old  thing.” 

He  sat  for  a while  thinkng  how  badly  he  wanted  a pair  of  shoes  to  . 
wear  to  the  Sunday-school  picnic.  His  mother  had  promised  to  wash 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


305 


and  mend  his  clothes,  so  that  he  might  be  looking  very  neat  indeed ; but 
the  old  shoes  were  far  past  all  mending  and  how  could  he  go  barefoot? 

Then  he  began  counting  the  chances  of  his  father  being  very 
angry  when  he  should  find  his  jug  broken.  He  did  not  like  the  idea 
of  getting  a whipping  for  it,  as  was  very  likely,  but  how  could  he  resist 
the  temptation  of  making  sure  about  those  shoes  ? The  more  he  thought 
of  them,  the  more  he  couldn’t.  He  sprang  up  and  hunted  around  until 


he  found  a good-sized  brick-bat,  which  he  flung  with  such  vigorous  hand 
and  correct  aim  that  the  next  moment  the  old  jug  lay  in  pieces  before 
his  eyes. 

- How  eagerly  he  bent  over  them  in  the  hope  of  finding  not  only  what 
he  was  so  longing  for,  but,  perhaps,  other  treasure ! But  his  poor  little 
heart  sank  as  he  turned  over  the  fragments  with  trembling  fingers. 
Nothing  could  be  found  among  the  broken  bits,  wet  on  the  inside  with 
a bad-smelling  liquid. 

Tim  sat  down  again  and  sobbed  as  he  had  never  sobbed  before ; so 
hard  that  he  did  not  hear  a step  beside  him  until  a voice  said: 

“Well!  what’s  all  this?” 


y 


306 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


He  sprang  up  in  great  alarm.  It  was  his  father,  who  always  slept 
late  in  the  morning,  and  was  very  seldom  awake  so  early  as  this. 

“Who  broke  my  jug?”  he  asked.  “I  did,”  said  Tim,  catching  his 
breath  half  in  terror  and  half  between  his  sobs. 

“Why  did  you?”  Tim  looked  up.  The  voice  did  not  souna  quite 
so  terrible  as  he  had  expected.  The  truth  was,  his  father  had  been 
touched  at  sight  of  the  forlorn  figure,  so  very  small  and  so  sorrowful, 
which  had  bent  over  the  broken  jug. 

“Why,”  he  said,  “I  was  lookin’  for  a pair  of  new  shoes.  I want  a 
pair  of  shoes  awful  bad  to  wear  to  the  picnic.  All  the  other  chaps 
wear  shoes.” 

“How  came  you  to  think  you’d  find  shoes  in  a jug?” 

“Why,  mamma  said  so.  I asked  her  for  some  new  shoes,  and  she 
said  they  had  gone  into  the  black  jug,  and  that  lots  of  other  things  had 
gone  into  it,  too  — coats  and  hats,  and  bread  and  meat  and  things  — and 
I thought  if  I broke  it  I’d  find  ’em  all,  and  there  ain’t  a thing  in  it  — and 
mamma  never  said  what  wasn’t  so  before  — and  I thought  ’t  would  be 
so  — sure.” 

And  Tim,  hardly  able  to  sob  out  the  words,  feeling  how  keenly  his 
trust  in  mother’s  word  had  added  to  his  great  disappointment,  sat  down 
again,  and  cried  harder  than  ever. 

His  father  seated  himself  on  a box  in  the  disorderly  yard,  and 
remained  quiet  for  so  long  a time  that  Tim  at  last  looked  timidly  up. 

“1  am  real  sorry  I broke  your  jug,  father.  I’ll  never  do  it  again.” 

“No,  I guess  you  won’t,”  he  said,  laying  a hand  on  the  rough  little 
head  as  he  went  away,  leaving  Tim  overcome  with  astonishment  that 
his  father  had  not  been  angry  with  him. 

Two  days  after,  on  the  very  evening  before  the  picnic,  he  handed 
Tim  a parcel,  telling  him  to  open  it. 

“New  shoes!  new  shoes!”  he  shouted.  “Oh,  father,  did  you  get 
a new  jug  and  were  they  in  it?” 

“No,  my  boy,  there  isn’t  going  to  be  a new  jug.  Your  mother 
was  right  all  the  time  — the  things  all  went  into  the  jug;  but  you  see 
getting  them  out  is  no  easy  matter,  so  I am  going  to  keep  them  out 
after  this.” — New  York  Observer. 

“I’LL  NEVER  STEAL  AGAIN  — IF  FATHER  KILLS  ME  FOR  IT.” 

A friend  of  mine,  seeking  for  objects  of  charity,  got  into  the  room 

I 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


307 


of  a tenement  house.  It  was  vacant.  He  saw  a ladder  pushed  through 
the  ceiling.  Thinking  that  perhaps  some  poor  creature  had  crept  up 


there,  he  climbed  the  ladder,  drew  himself  up  through  the  hole,  and 
found  himself  under  the  rafters.  There  was  no  light  but  that  which  came 
through  a bull’s-eye  in  the  place  of  a tile.  Soon  he  saw  a heap  of  chips 
and  shavings,  and  on  them  a boy  about  ten  years  old. 

“Boy,  what  are  you  doing  there?” 

“Hush!  don’t  tell  anybody  — please,  sir.” 

“What  are  you  doing  here?” 

“Don’t  tell  anybody,  sir;  I’m  hiding.” 

“What  are  you  hiding  from?” 

“Don’t  tell  anybody,  if  you  please,  sir.” 

“Where’s  your  mother?” 


308 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


“Mother  is  dead.” 

“Where’s  your  father?” 

“Hush  ! don’t  tell  him  ! don’t  tell  him  ! but  look  here !”  He  turned 
himself  on  his  face,  and  through  the  rags  of  his  jacket  and  shirt,  my 
friend  saw  the  boy’s  flesh  was  bruised  and  the  skin  was  broken. 

“Why,  my  boy,  who  beat  you  like  that?” 

“Father  did,  sir.” 

“What  did  your  father  beat  you  like  that  for?” 

“Father  got  drunk,  sir,  and  beat  me  ’cos  I wouldn’t  steal.” 

“Did  you  ever  steal?” 

“Yes,  sir.  I was  a street  thief  once.” 

“And  why  don’t  you  steal  any  more?” 

“Please,  sir,  I went  to  the  mission  school,  and  they  told  me  there 
of  God,  and  of  heaven,  and  of  Jesus;  and  they  taught  me,  ‘Thou  shalt 
not  steal’;  and  I’ll  never  steal  again,  if  father  kills  me  for  it.  But,  please, 
sir,  don’t  tell  him.” 

“My  boy,  you  must  not  stay  here;  you  will  die.  Now,  you  wait 
patiently  here  for  a little  time ; I’m  going  away  to  see  a lady.  W e will 
get  a better  place  for  you  than  this.” 

“Thank  you,  sir;  but  please,  sir,  would  you  like  to  hear  me  sing  a 
little  hymn?” 

Bruised,  battered,  forlorn,  friendless,  motherless,  hiding  away  from 
an  infuriated  father,  he  had  a little  hymn  to  sing. 

“Yes,  I will  hear  you  sing  your  little  hymn.” 

He  raised  himself  on  his  elbow  and  then  sang: 

“Gentle  Jesus,  meek  and  mild. 

Look  upon  a little  child; 

Suffer  me  to  come  to  Thee. 

Fain  would  I to  Thee  be  brought. 

Gracious  Lord,  forbid  it  not; 

In  the  kingdom  of  Thy  grace 
Give  a little  child  a place.” 

“That’s  the  little  hymn,  sir.  Good-bye.” 

The  gentleman  went  away,  came  back  again  in  less  than  two  hours, 
and  climbed  the  ladder.  There  were  the  chips,  and  there  was  the  little 
boy  with  one  hand  by  his  side,  and  the  other  tucked  in  his  bosom,  under- 
neath the  little  ragged  shirt  — dead. — John  B.  Gough  in  “Touching  In- 
cidents.” 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


309 


WHAT  BECAME  OF  THEM. 

An  Ohio  correspondent  of  the  “Tennessee  Good  Templar”  gives  the 
following  sad  illustration  of  the  wages  of  sin  : 

“The  most  hopeless  feature  of  intemperance  is  that  it  stupefies  its 
victims  to  any  convictions  of  fears  of  their  own  future.  Forty  years  ago 
I noted  down  ten  drinkers,  six  young  men  and  four  boys.  I saw  the 
boys  drink  beer  and  buy  cigars  in  what  was  then  called  a ‘grocery,’  or 
‘doggery.’  I expressed  my  disapprobation  and  the  seller  gave  a coarse 
reply.  He  continued  the  business,  and  in  fifteen  years  he  died  of  delir- 
ium tremens,  leaving  not  five  dollars. 

“I  never  lost  sight  of  these  ten,  only  as  the  clods  of  the  valley  hid 
their  bodies  from  human  vision.  Of  the  six  young  men,  one  died  of 
delirium  tremens,  and  one  in  a drunken  fit;  two  died  of  diseases  pro- 
duced by  their  excesses,  before  they  reached  the  meridian  of  life ; two 
of  them  left  families  not  provided  for,  and  two  sons  are  drunkards.  Of 
the  two  remaining,  one  is  a miserable  wreck,  and  the  other  a drinker  in 
somewhat  better  condition. 

“Of  the  four  boys,  one,  who  had  a good  mother,  grew  up  a sober 
man ; one  was  killed  by  a club  in  a drunken  broil ; one  has  served  two 
terms  in  the  penitentiary,  and  one  has  drank  himself  into  an  inoffensive 
dolt,  whose  family  has  to  provide  for  him.” — The  Christian. 

HIS  DRINK  CURE. 

A certain  Indianapolis  lawyer,  who  has  a good  practice  now,  quit 
drinking  whiskey  and  beer  and  other  intoxicants,  too,  for  that  matter, 
two  or  three  years  ago,  and  he  didn’t  take  the  Keeley  cure,  either.  A 
German  saloonkeeper  of  whom  the  lawyer  bought  most  of  his  liquor 
administered  the  cure,  and  it  has  been  effective. 

For  several  years  the  lawyer  had  been  buying  nearly  all  of  his  drinks 
at  this  particular  saloon.  He  paid  his  bills  there  the  same  as  he  paid  his 
grocery  bills.  Finally  the  old  saloonkeeper  bought  a house  and  lot,  and 
he  employed  another  lawyer  who  never  bought  drinks  to  prepare  the 
abstract  and  the  deed  and  transact  other  business  in  connection  with  the 
deal.  The  lawyer  who  had  been  the  regular  customer  heard  about  it. 
He  was  filled  with  rage,  and  he  went  at  once  to  demand  an  explanation. 

“Here,”  he  yelled  as  he  leaned  over  the  bar  and  appointed  an  accus- 


310 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


ing  finger  at  the  old  German.  “I  buy  all  my  drinks  here.  I have  bought 
my  drinks  here  for  years.  I have  spent  hundreds  of  dollars  in  this  place. 
And  the  very  minute  you  have  some  work  for  a lawyer  to  do,  you  go  and 
employ  someone  else.  That’s  what  you  do.  You  go  and,  and ” 

“Veil,”  interrupted  the  old  German  in  the  midst  of  the  harangue  of 
accusation,  “when  I got  business,  I want  it  done  by  a sober  lawyer.” 

The  offending  lawyer  turned  and  walked  out,  and  his  friends  say 
he  has  drunk  nothing  stronger  than  coffee  since. — Indianapolis  News. 

JUST  ONE  DRINK. 

It  was  at  a children’s  party.  A beautiful  little  girl  with  a face  as 
sweet  as  a cherub,  and  yet  marked  with  sadness,  sat  in  a small  rocking 
chair  watching  the  other  children  play  and  taking  no  part.  A dainty 
white  cape,  edged  with  lace,  was  thrown  about  her.  More  than  one 
child  wondered  why,  but  presently  they  all  found  out  “why.”  During 
one  of  the  games  one  of  the  guests  approached  the  beautiful  stranger 
with  kindly  attention.  They  were  playing  “Barbie  Brunt.”  “Put  out 
your  hands,”  she  said,  “and  I’ll  fill  ’em  full  to  the  brim.” 

But  the  gentle  request  was  not  obeyed.  “Put  out  your  hands,  I 
say,”  demanded  the  leader.  “Don’t  you  want  to  play?”  Still  the  child 
did  not  put  out  her  hands.  Her  face  paled.  She  tried  to  speak,  but 
could  not  find  her  voice.  At  this  moment  the  little  hostess,  a charming 
child,  entered  the  room.  Finding  her  guests  watching  the  little  visitor 
(who  was  spending  a few  days  at  her  home),  who  looked  disturbed,  she 
asked : 

“What’s  the  matter?” 

“She  won’t  play  ‘Barbie  Brunt,’  ” was  the  answer. 

“She  can’t  play  ‘Barbie  ferunt,’  ” said  the  hostess,  sorrowfully. 

The  little  stranger  had  no  arms.  She  was  the  child  of  wealthy  par- 
ents who  did  all  they  could  for  her  comfort  and  pleasure,  but  they  could 
not  bring  her  arms  to  her. 

It  is  a sad  story.  One  day  she  was  sitting  on  the  front  doorstep  of 
her  beautiful  home  — a happy,  laughing  child.  While  she  sat  there 
singing  a lullaby  to  her  dolly,  her  brother  came  home.  He  had  a gun  in 
his  hand  and  was  staggering.  She  thought  he  was  staggering  for  fun, 
and  she  laughed  with  childish  glee. 

“I’m  going  to  shoot  you,”  he  said  angrily.  Then  she  was  afraid.  As 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


311 


he  raised  the  gun  she  bent  her  head  and  threw  up  her  hands.  The  boy 
fired.  The  dear  little  hands  of  the  child  were  almost  completely  shot  off. 
They  had  to  be  amputated  at  her  wrists,  and  later,  to  save  her  life,  her 
arms  were  cut  off. 

The  boy  was  broken-hearted;  he  wanted  to  put  himself  out  of  the 
world.  He  had  always  loved  his  little  sister,  but  “just  one  drink”  had 
made  him  wild.  He  never  took  a drop  of  intoxicating  drink  after  that 
“black  day”  in  his  life’s  calendar.  But  even  his  remorseful  agony  could 
not  bring  back  the  dimpled  arms  to  his  beloved  little  sister.  His  hair 
grew  white  before  he  was  of  age.  Notwithstanding  his  father’s  wealth 
his  days  are  spent  in  hard  manual  labor.  He  wants  to  forget  that  black 
day,  but  he  cannot.  No  matter  how  tired  he  is,  he  never  rests  his  weary 
head  upon  the  pillow  without  this  thought  haunting  him : 

“Janie’s  dear  little  arms  ! Janie’s  dear  little  arms ! The  price  of  just 
one  drink.” — Temperance  Banner. 

THE  TEARLESS  HANDKERCHIEF. 

When  the  death  of  John  B.  Gough  was  announced,  wagon  loads  of 
flowers  were  turned  back  from  the  door  of  his  home  with  the  orders 
that  these  flowers  be  distributed  among  the  poor.  When  the  vast  con- 
gregation of  people  came  to  the  funeral,  there  was  not  a flower  upon  the 
casket ; the  only  decoration  was  a little  faded,  tear-stained  handkerchief, 
and  the  story  of  the  handkerchief  was  this : Many  years  before  that,  a 
young  lady  had  married  a young  man,  and  they  had  gone  to  the  city  of 
New  York  to  live. 

After  they  had  finally  settled  there  the  wife  found  that  he  was  a 
drunkard  and  gambler,  and  soon  began  to  leave  her  alone  at  night.  Two 
little  children  came  into  their  home ; but  he  cared  not  for  them,  seem- 
ingly, for  he  would  be  out  all  night.  Then  he  began  to  beat  his  family, 
curse  them,  and  then  began  pawning  the  furniture. 

One  by  one  the  pieces  of  furniture  that  she  had  brought  from  old 
Kentucky  were  sent  down  to  the  pawnshop.  After  a while  this  poor 
woman  had  to  go  out  and  wash  for  a living  that  her  children  might  have 
bread  to  eat.  She  had  one  treasure  left,  that  was  the  piano  that  her 
mother  had  given  her  on  her  wedding  day.  She  would  take  her  little 
tots  and  play  on  the  piano  and  sing  to  them ; then  they  would  say  their 
little  prayers  and  go  to  bed. 


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STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


She  came  home  one  night  and  her  piano  was  gone.  She  knew  what 
it  meant.  The  last  thing  she  had  to  tell  of  her  old  home  had  been 
pawned  by  her  husband  for  drink.  Her  heart  was  breaking,  but  her 
babies  came  and  asked  her  to  sing.  She  put  her  arms  around  them  and 
did  the  best  she  could  without  her  piano. 

Somehow  the  whiskey  had  not  tasted  as  good  that  night  as  usual. 
(Sometimes  when  mixed  with  a woman’s  tears  it  gets  a little  bitter.) 
Her  husband  came  home  not  so  drunk  as  usual.  As  he  came  around  the 
house  he  looked  in  at  the  window  and  saw  the  children  in  their  little 
nighties,  and  his  wife  singing  a lullaby  song;  then  they  prayed,  kneeling 
down  beside  her. 

Each  one  asked  God  to  bless  them,  to  bless  mamma,  then  to  bless 
papa,  and  help  him  be  good  and  bring  him  home  sober.  He  slipped  in, 
and  knelt  down  by  his  wife’s  side,  and  said,  “Wife,  if  you’ll  forgive 
me  I’ll  never  do  it  again.,”  She  said,  “Tom,  will  you  sign  the  pledge  to- 
night?” He  said,  “I  will.”  They  went  down  together  to  a hall  where 
John  B.  Gough,  the  great  temperance  lecturer,  was  giving  a lecture. 
Tom  went  up  and  put  his  name  down. 

One  day,  at  the  time  of  Mr.  Gough’s  illness,  this  woman  came  to 
his  home,  and  she  told  her  story  to  ]\Irs.  Gough.  She  said,  “I  hoped  I 
might  give  some  presents  to  Mr.  Gough,  but  I cannot  do  it.  I have 
brought  my  handkerchief.  I have  not  shed  a tear  since  the  night  Tom 
signed  the  pledge.  I brought  this,  and  thought  I would  give  it  to  iMr. 
Gough.”  When  Mr.  Gough  heard  this,  he  told  his  wife  to  send  all 
flowers  that  might  be  sent  to  him  at  his  funeral  to  the  poor,  and  to  put 
nothing  but  that  little  handkerchief  on  his  casket  and  tell  the  people 
that  there  was  one  soul  on  earth  that  he  had  helped  make  happier.  When 
the  people  saw  that  little  handkerchief  on  the  casket  of  John  B.  Gough, 
it  taught  them  a lesson  all  the  flowers  in  the  world  couldn’t  have  taught. 
••-Selected  by  Evangelical  Friend. 

IT  SAVES  THE  BOYS. 

The  best  argument  I have  found  in  Maine  for  prohibition  was  by 
an  editor  of  a paper  in  Portland,  who  was  for  political  reasons  mildly 
opposed  to  it.  I had  a conversation  with  him  that  ran  something  like 
this  • 

“Where  were  you  born?” 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


313 


“In  a little  village  about  sixty  miles  from  Bangor.’’ 

“Do  you  remember  the  condition  of  things  in  your  village  prior  to 
prohibition?” 

“Distinctly.  There  was  a vast  amount  of  drunkenness,  and  conse- 
quent disorder  and  poverty.” 

“What  was  the  effect  of  prohibition?” 

“It  shut  up  all  the  rum-shops,  and  practically  banished  liquor  from 
the  village.  It  became  one  of  the  most  quiet  and  prosperous  places  on 
the  globe.” 

“How  long  did  you  live  in  the  village  after  prohibition?” 

“Eleven  years,  or  until  I was  twenty-one  years  of  age.” 

“Then?” 

“Then  I went  to  Bangor.” 

“Do  you  drink  now?” 

“I  have  never  tasted  a drop  of  liquor  in  my  life.” 

“Why?” 

“Up  to  the  age  of  twenty-one  I never  saw  it,  and  after  that  I did 
not  care  to  take  on  the  habit.” 

That  is  all  there  is  in  it.  If  the  boys  of  the  country  ^are  not  exposed 
to  the  infernalism,  the  men  are  very  sure  not  to  be.  This  man  and  his 
schoolmates  were  saved  from  , rum  by  the  fact  that  they  could  not  get  it 
until  they  were  old  enough  to  know  better.  Few  men  are  drunkards  who 
know  not  the  poison  till  after  they  are  twenty-one.  It  is  the  youth  that 
the  whiskey  and  beer  men  want. — North  American  Review. 

JACK  AND  HIS  HARD  LUMP, 

“Halloo,  Jack!  Won’t  you  have  a glass  this  cold  morning?”  cried  a 
bloated-looking  saloonkeeper  to  a sailor  who  was  quickly  stepping  along 
the  road. 

Jack  had  formerly  been  a hard  drinker  and  had  spent  many  a week’s 
wages  in  the  saloon  he  was  now  passing,  but  a year  ago  he  had  signed 
the  pledge. 

“No!  I can’t  drink;  I’ve  got  a hard  lump  at  my  side.”  As  the 
sailor  said  these  words  he  pressed  his  hands  against  his  side,  adding,  “Oh, 
this  hard  lump !” 

“It’s  all  through  leaving  off  grog,”  replied  the  saloonkeeper.  “Some 
good  drink  will  take  your  lump  away.  If  you  are  fool  enough  to  keep 


314 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


from  your  grog  your  lump  will  get  bigger,  and  very  likely  you’ll  be  hav- 
ing a hard  lump  at  your  other  side.” 

“True!  true  I old  boy,”  with  a hearty  laugh,  responded  the  sailor,  as 
he  drew  out  a bag  of  gold  from  his  side  pocket  and  held  it  up  to  the 
saloonkeeper’s  gaze.  “Here’s  my  hard  lump.  You  are  right  in  saying 
that  if  I drink  my  lump  will  go  away,  and  if  I stick  to  teetotal  I shall 
have  a bigger  lump.  Good-bye  to  you.  By  God’s  help  I’ll  keep  out  of 
your  net  and  try  to  get  a lump  at  both  sides  1” — Selected. 

THE  WORK  OF  A SALOON. 

“A  man  was  shot  in  the  saloon  over  here  on  the  corner  of  Adams 
and  Green  streets  about  an  hour  ago,”  was  the  report  brought  to  us 
Friday,  August  14,  and  soon  the  newsboys  were  calling  out  very  loudly, 
“Extra  paper ! Ex — tra  paper ! All  about  the  Adams  street  murder !” 
That  night  as  we  were  on  our  way  to  the  mission  we  were  horrified  to 
learn  that  the  man,  who  was  shot  by  the  bartender,  only  a block  and  a 
half  from  the  mission  home,  was  the  father  of  our  dear  little  Sunday- 
school  boy,  Mark.  Oh,  the  awful,  awful  work  of  this  deadly  foe,  the 
licensed  saloon  !• 

We  soon  visited  the  home  of  little  Mark  and  tried  to  comfort  his 
broken-hearted  mother,  who  was  moaning  out  in  her  grief,  “Ah,  they 
have  taken  everything  I had  in  this  world,  except  my  poor  little  boy, 
and  we’ll  have  a h-a-r-d  road  to  travel.”  We  knelt  in  prayer  by  her 
side  and  called  upon  the  God  of  all  comfort  to  help  this  sorrowing  one 
and  teach  her  the  way  of  life  and  peace,  for  we  knew  her  anguish  was 
too  deep  for  our  human  hearts  to  fathom  and  soothe. 

Two  of  our  number  attended  the  funeral,  and  as  the  one  they  had 
hoped  to  secure  could  not  be  present  to  officiate,  we  were  requested  to 
take  charge  of  the  service.  Quite  a number  of  the  men  and  women  of 
this  neighborhood  and  others  from  some  distance  away  gathered  in  the 
gloom-shadowed  home  to  pay  their  last  respects  to  the  one  whose  life 
was  snatched  away  in  a moment  of  time ; and  we  realized  the  great  re- 
sponsibility of  pointing  these  people  to  Jesus,  the  Lamb  of  God,  and 
warning  those  on  the  downward  road  to  flee  the  wrath  to  come.  We 
felt  the  Lord  helping  us  to  sing,  pray  and  speak  in  His  name,  and  tears 
came  to  the  eyes  of  many  of  those  w'ho  listened.  God  grant  that  our 
simple  effort,  made  in  such  weakness,  may  result  in  leading  some  whose 


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315 


hearts  have  long  been  hardened  by  sin  to  turn  their  feet  into  the  ways 
of  righteousness.  Two  sisters  of  the  deceased  were  present  and  be- 
moaned greatly  the  untimely  loss  of  their  favorite  brother.  “He  was 
brought  up  under  Christian  influence,”  said  one  of  the  sisters,  speaking 
to  us  after  the  service.  Oh,  how  the  hearts  of  these  dear  women  were 
pained  as  they  saw  their  brother  lying  cold  in  death  through  the  influ- 
ence of  the  saloon ! Between  her  sobs  the  sister  also  told  us  that  only 
about  a year  ago,  the  last  time  she  visited  her  brother,  he  remarked,  as 
he  bade  her  good-bye  at  the  train,  that  he  would  not  have  been  living 
the  kind  of  life  he  was  leading  if  mother  had  lived.  One  of  mother’s 
boys,  and  one  of  sister’s  favorites ! Oh,  how  many  of  them  neglect  to 
follow  the  loving  counsel  given  in  youthful  days  and  neglect  to  accept 
the  only  One  who  can  make  life  a success,  until  suddenly  the  awful  foe 
has  swept  away  their  last  opportunity ! 

We  looked  at  the  great,  handsome  form  of  little  Mark’s  father  and 
had  to  admit  that  he  was  an  exceptionally  fine  specimen  of  the  physical 
man.  A confirmed  drunkard?  No,  not  that;  a big-hearted,  loving 
father  and  a generous  friend,  but  a man  who  dared  go  into  the  saloon 
with  his  friends  and  take  a drink  when  he  wanted  to  do  so ; and  they 
wanted  him  to  go  this  special  day,  which  proved  to  be  his  last.  One  of 
his  friends  had  a difference  with  the  barkeeper,  who,  upon  being  attacked, 
instantly  fired,  killing  Mark’s  father  and  wounding  another  of  the  party. 

Oh,  precious  voter,  could  you  look  with  us  into  the  wide,  horrified 
eyes  of  our  little  fatherless  Sunday-school  boy  and  see  the  sad,  haggard 
look  on  his  little  pale  face,  usually  so  cheerful  and  bright;  could  you 
hear  the  frenzied  wail  of  his  grief-stricken  mother,  “Oh,  he  was  always 
so  good  to  me !”  could  you  witness  the  tears  flowing  from  the  eyes  of 
those  loving,  disappointed  sisters  who  had  so  wanted  their  favorite 
brother  to  shun  those  awful  dens  of  iniquity,  if  your  heart  has  not 
already  turned  to  stone,  it  would  break  and  bleed  in  pity  and  you  would 
surely  realize  that  in  God’s  sight  we  are  “our  brother’s  keeper.” 

When  asked  by  the  coroner  if  he  should  not  hold  the  murderer  for 
trial,  that  he  might  be  punished,  Mark’s  mother  replied  pathetically, 
“No,  no ; God  will  take  care  of  him !”  Ah,  and  God  will  take  care  of  the 
nation  that  legalizes  these  death-traps  of  Satan,  James  Otis,  who  was 
the  father  of  the  first  Congress,  said,  “Civil  government  is  of  God.”  If  he 
lived  today  to  fight  the  tyranny  and  oppression  of  the  liquor  traffic  he 
would  surely  say,  “Prohibition  is  of  God,  and  to  sanction  or  screen  the 


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STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


making  and  selling  of  distilled  damnation  is  of  the  devil.” — Olive  Branch. 

“PAPA  MADE  ME  DRUNK.” 

“These  are  the  last  words,  repeated  over  and  over  again,  of  a little 
boy  who  recently  died  from  the  effects  of  whiskey.  His  father,  an  old 
acquaintance  of  mine,”  says  A.  T.  Goodlove,  “carried  a jug  of  whiskey 
home  with  him  from  town,  and  gave  each  of  his  children  a dram  out  of  it. 
This  child  was  brought  under  control  of  the  whiskey  devil  by  the  drink 
given  to  him,  and  slipped  to  the  jug,  as  soon  as  he  could  do  so 
unobserved,  to  get  as  much  of  the  fiery  liquor  as  his  cravings  called 
for.  When  found  he  was  lying  on  the  floor  by  the  jug  unable  to  move, 
and  insensible.  The  doctor  was  sent  for,  and  he  was  roused  sufliiciently 
to  say,  and  keep  saying  till  he  died,  “Papa  made  me  drunk.” — Selected. 

GOSPEL  TEMPERANCE. 

John  G.  Woolley  related  the  following  experience  before  a body  of 
young  people  as  an  illustration  of  Gospel  Temperance  work: 

I walked  the  streets  of  New  York  City  one  August  day,  starving  — 
but  I was  sober.  The  play  of  my  life  was  over ; the  light  had  burned  out. 
I was  a ruined  man,  godless  and  hopeless,  and  that  is  Hell,  whether  it 
happens  to  a man  in  this  world  or  another.  I saw  three  witches  — 
starvation,  beggary  and  crime  — stirring  a black  broth  for  me  on  the 
bleakest  moor  of  life  that  ever  the  fanged  hounds  of  appetite  and  remorse 
haunted  a man  over.  But  I was  sober. 

So  I looked  back  upon  the  wreck  of  my  life  that  day.  All  was  lost. 
Father  had  died  calling  to  me  to  come  to  him  from  the  saloon  to  see 
him  die.  Mother  had  died  calling  me  to  stay  out  of  the  saloon  and  see 
her  die.  My  wife  was  worse  than  widowed;  her  children  worse  than 
orphans  — shelterless  but  for  the  grace  of  creditors  and  God’s  canopy 
that  shelters  all  — and  the  future  was  an  infinity  of  pitch. 

But  I was  sober ! If  I had  said  that  I had  left  off  drink  forever,  no 
man  who  knew  me  would  believe  me.  If  I had  been  able  to  telegraph 
my  wife  I was  going  home,  she  would  have  answered,  though  it  broke 
her  heart,  “You  must  not  come  home.”  If  I asked  for  employment,  no 
man  would  trust  me.  The  asylum  would  not  receive  me,  for  I was  sane : 
nor  the  hospitals,  for  I was  not  sick;  nor  the  morgue,  for  I was  not 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


317 


dead.  I had  not  been  to  bed,  for  I had  no  bed.  I remembered  nothing 
of  the  night  before,  or  of  the  morning,  but  I was  sober.  I thought  I 
was  going  mad. 

I washed  my  face  at  the  fountain  at  Union  Square,  and  crossed'  over 
to  Eighth  Avenue.  At  the  corner  of  Twenty-first  Street  I saw  the  sign 
of  Stephen  Merritt  — you  know  him,  some  of  you;  all  the  angels  know 
him  well.  I had  never  seen  him,  but  had  heard  of  him.  It  was  not 
food  I thought  of,  but  an  overwhelming  desire  filled  me  to  touch  the 
hand  of  a good  man.  I entered.  A man  with  the  joy  of  the  Lord  in 
his  face  came  to  meet  me  with  his  hand  extended,  and  as  he  grasped 
mine  I said,  “I  don’t  know  why  I came.”  The  sentence  was  never 
finished,  for  I burst  into  tears,  and  then  I told  him  who  and  what  I was. 
I said  not  a word  about  money  or  hunger,  for  I had  forgotten  both. 

He  said : “You  need  the  woods ! Did  you  ever  go  to  camp-meeting? 
I have  a tent  on  the  Hudson  at  the  camp-meeting;  there  is  a boat  at  one 
o’clock.  You  can  catch  it.  Go  on  and  rest,  and  perhaps  you’ll  enjoy 
the  sermons,  too.  I’ll  be  out  in  three  days.”  Then  he  snatched  up  a 
pen  and  wrote  a letter  to  a Christian  woman,  and  read  it  to  me  before 
he  closed  it:  “This  is  my  friend;  John  G.  Woolley,  of  Minneapolis; 
show  him  to  my  tent,  and  do  for  him  as  you  would  do  for  me.”  Then 
he  slipped  a five  dollar  bill  into  my  hand  and  said:  “Good-bye;  see 
you  Monday,”  and  pretending  he  was  called,  was  gone  before  I said 
a word. 

I call  that  Gospel  Temperance  work.  And  when  a young  man 
simply  declines  a glass  of  wine,  giving  the  name  of  Jesus  for  the  reason, 
I call  that  Gospel  Temperance. — Selected. 

WAITING  FOR  HIS  DRUNKEN  MOTHER. 

Lady  Henry  Somerset  recently  said : “Some  years  ago  I was  passing 
along  a great  thoroughfare  at  the  hour  of  midnight,  and  I saw  a little 
boy  sitting  on  the  curb  and  anxiously  looking  at  the  illuminated  clock 
at  the  end  of  the  street.  I asked  him  what  he  was  waiting  for.  T am 
waiting  to  bring  mother  home,’  said  he.  Every  night  that  little  boy, 
eight  years  of  age,  went  there  and  waited  for  his  drunken  mother  to 
come  out  of  the  public  house,  so  that  he  could  conduct  her  to  the  place 
they  called  home.  We  must  look  after  these  children,  or  England  will 
disappear  with  that  great  crowd  of  nations  which  have  passed  away  in 
disgrace  and  ruin,” 


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STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


HER  UNIQUE  DEFINITION  OF  TEETOTALISM. 

Paying  a visit  of  inspection  one  day  to  a large  English  school,  an 
inspector  found  a teacher  exercising  a class  in  the  subject  of  definitions. 
One  interrogation  put  to  them  seemed  for  a moment  a great  puzzle. 
The  question  was:  “What  is  teetotalism?” 

At  last  one  tiny  girl,  whose  pinched  face  and  shabby  clothes  bespoke 
hard  times  at  home,  put  up  her  hand  and  cried  out:  “I  know,  teacher!” 

Both  teacher  and  visitor  felt  lumps  rise  in  their  throats  as  the  answer 
came,  in  the  thin,  piping  treble:  “Teetotalism  means  bread  and  butter.” 

»With  tears  swelling  in  her  eyes,  the  teacher  said:  “You  must 
explain  that.” 

And  the  small  damsel  promptly  replied : 

“Because  when  father’s  teetotal  we  get  bread  and  butter,  and  when 
he  is  not,  we  have  to  go  without.” — Home  Herald. 

BRAVE  BILL  AND  HIS  ENEMY. 

When  the  report  of  the  loss  of  the  Maine  reached  this  country,  the 
account  was  given  also  of  the  dauntless  courage  with  which  the  officers 
and  sailors  met  the  disaster.  One  man,  while  the  thunder  of  the  explosion 
was  still  sounding  in  his  ears,  appeared  at  the  door  of  Captain  Sigsbee’s 
cabin,  and  touching  his  cap,  said  calmly: 

“Excuse  me,  sir,  I have  to  report  that  the  ship  has  blown  up  and 
is  sinking.” 

He  faced  an  almost  certain  death  in  order  to  save  the  captain’s  life. 

When  the  story  was  told,  the  heart  of  the  nation  responded  with  a 
proud  throb.  Every  American  felt  honored  by  the  courage  and  coolness 
of  his  countryman,  and  rejoiced  that  by  some  happy  chance  he  was 
among  the  few  who  were  saved. 

His  after-story  is  brief,  and  as  it  has  been  told  in  all  the  daily 
journals,  there  can  be  no  indelicacy  in  reciting  it  here. 

He  was  a marine  orderly  on  the  Maine,  a gallant,  generous,  friendly 
young  fellow,  who  had  but  one  enemy  — he  drank  to  excess.  After  the 
destruction  of  the  Maine,  he  came  to  this  country,  and  was  received  with 
praise  and  affection  as  a hero.  His  friends  gathered  around  him;  he 
married,  and  soon  had  another  position.  He  loved  his  work,  his  friends. 


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319 


and  his  wife ; but  not  work,  nor  friends,  nor  home  could  drag  him  away 
from  the  fatal  habit. 

Not  two  years  from  that  day  when,  a hero  among  heroes,  he  trod 
the  deck  of  the  sinking  ship,  he  sat  alone  in  a public  park  in  New  York, 
a miserable  outcast,  who,  for  liquor,  had  given  up  all  that  made  life  dear. 
Mad  with  want  and  despair,  he  kissed  the  picture  of  his  child,  and  put 
an  end  to  his  life  — a life  which  God  had  fitted  to  make  happy  and 
noble. 

We  tell  this  story  to  American  boys,  as  we  would  point  out  a beast 
of  prey  hidden  by  the  path  along  which  they  must  walk.’ — Youth’s  Com- 
panion. 

A REPLY  TO  THE  MODERATE  DRINKER. 

That  staunch  old  Scotchman,  Dr.  Arnot,  gives  a good  illustration 
of  the  total  abstinence  question.  “You  will  find  the  world  full  of  men  who 
will  tell  you  they  ‘are  not  obliged  to  sign  away  their  liberty  in  order  to 
keep  on  the  safe  side.’  ‘They  know  when  they  have  had  enough ; no 
danger  of  their  becoming  drunkards,’  and  the  like.” 

Dr.  Arnot  says:  “True,  you  are  not  obliged;  but  here  is  a river  we 
have  to  cross.  It  is  broad  and  deep  and  rapid;  whoever  falls  into  it  is 
sure  to  be  drowned.  Here  is  a narrow  foot-bridge,  a single  timber 
extending  across.  He  who  is  lithe  of  limb  and  steady  of  brain  and  nerve 
may  step  over  it  in  safety.  Yonder  is  a broad,  strong  bridge.  Its  foun- 
dations are  solid  rock.  Its  passages  are  wide ; its  balustrade  is  high  and 
firm.  All  may  cross  it  in  perfect  safety  — the  aged  and  feeble,  the  young 
and  gay,  the  tottering  wee  ones.  There  is  no  danger  there.  Now,  my 
friends,  you  say,  ‘I  am  not  obliged  to  go  yonder.  Let  them  go  there  who 
cannot  walk  this  timber.’  True,  true,  you  are  not  obliged,  but  as  for 
you,  we  know  that  if  we  cross  that  timber,  though  we  may  go  safely, 
many  others  who  will  attempt  to  follow  us  will  surely  perish.  And  we 
feel  better  to  go  by  the  bridge !” 

Walking  a foot-bridge  over  a raging  torrent  is  risky  business,  but  it 
is  safety  itself  compared  with  tampering  with  strong  drink. — Home 
Herald. 

SAILORS  OF  THE  MAINE. 

“Three  hundred  sailors  gave  up  their  lives  in  the  Maine  disaster, 
accident  or  no  accident,  and  the  country  went  into  spasms  of  excite- 
ment because  of  the  sacrifice.  Every  year  in  Chicago,  four  thousand 


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STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


persons  give  up  their  lives  because  of  the  contaminated  water  supply, 
and  there  is  no  question  as  to  accident  or  no  accident.  We  know  all 
about  it.  Why  not  declare  war  on  those  persons  who  are  trying  to  main- 
tain this  slaughter  of  innocents  by  opposing  the  intercepting  and  purify- 
ing sewers?”  The  question,  asked  by  a Chicago  newspaper,  is  apropos. 
We  suggest  that  the  American  public  also  consider  this  one:  Every 
year  in  the  United  States  one  hundred  thousand  persons  give  up  their 
lives  because  of  the  supply  of  intoxicating  drinks  — to  say  nothing  of 
all  the  miseries  entailed  and  the  thousands  of  other  lives  that  are 
wrecked  by  it  — and  there  is  no  question  as  to  accident.  Why  not 
declare  war  on  those  persons  who  maintain  this  slaughter  by  opposing 
the  only  remedy  for  such  wholesale  destruction  — the  prohibition  of  the 
liquor  traffic? — Union  Signal. 

A GOOD  JUDGE  OF  WHISKY. 

There  is  a certain  debate  in  progress  over  the  good  or  ill  effects 
of  whisky  upon  the  human  system,  and  we  want  expert  opinion  when  it 
can  be  found.  Therefore,  when  someone  in  a position  to  know,  rises 
to  speak,  we  cheerfully  listen ; and  if  it  is  discovered  that  the  gentleman 
hails  from  Kentucky,  he  has  that  profound  attention  that  is  due  the  voice 
of  an  authority ; but  when  we  learn  that  the  man  who  has  addressed  the 
chair  is  a genuine  Kentucky  colonel,  let  nobody  leave  the  place  nor  rustle 
a fan,  for  the  truth  about  whisky  is  at  last  within  our  reach. 

Well,  such  testimony  has  been  given.  The  “New  York  Times” 
states  that  Col.  W.  M.  Thomas  of  Kentucky,  latel}"  gave  some  interest- 
ing testimony  on  the  subject  of  whisky,  before  the  Food  Standards  Com- 
mittee in  that  city.  To  quote  the  “Times 

“Much  of  the  so-called  better-class  whisky  sold  now.  Col.  Thomas 
said,  was  made  from  alcohol  distilled  from  corn,  filtered  through  char- 
coal to  remove  the  fusil  oil  and  other  impurities,  and  mixed  with  about 
one-fifth  of  its  volume  of  pure  old  Bourbon  or  rye  whisky.  Such  a 
compound,  he  said,  might  not  be  positively  injurious,  but  it  could 
hardly  be  called  pure  whisky. 

“By  far  the  greater  portion  of  the  stuff  sold  as  whisky,  he  declared, 
however,  was  made  by  taking  Cologne  spirits,  coloring  it  artificially,  and 
adding  artificial  essences,  ethers,  and  oils  to  imitate  the  taste,  and  appear 
ance  of  whisky.  Such  concoctions.  Col . Thomas  said,  were  unfit  foi 
human  use.” 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


321 


A PATHETIC  STORY. 

I was  sitting  at  my  breakfast  table  one  Sabbath  morning,  when  I 
was  called  to  my  door  by  the  ring  of  the  bell.  There  stood  a boy,  about 
fourteen  years  of  age,  poorly  clad,  but  tidied  up  as  best  he  could. 

He  was  leaning  upon  crutches ; one  leg  off  at  the  knee.  In  a voice 
trembling  with  emotion,  and  tears  coursing  down  his  cheeks,  he  said : 

“Mr.  Hoagland,  I am  Freddy  Brown.  I have  come  to  see  if  you 
will  go  to  the  jail  and  talk  and  pray  with  my  father.  He  is  to  be  hung 
to-morrow  for  the  murder  of  my  mother.  My  father  was  a good  man, 
but  whiskey  did  it.  I have  three  little  sisters,  younger  than  myself. 
We  are  very,  very  poor,  and  have  no  friends.  We  live  in  a dark  and 
dingy  room.  I do  the  best  I can  to  support  my  sisters,  by  selling 
papers,  blacking  boots,  and  odd  jobs,  but,  Mr.  Hoagland,  we  are  awfully 
poor.  Will  you  come  and  be  with  us  when  father’s  body  is  brought 
home?  The  governor  says  we  may  have  his  body  after  he  is  hung.” 

I was  deeply  moved  to  pity.  I promised  and  made  haste  to  the 
jail,  where  I found  his  father. 

He  acknowledged  that  he  must  have  murdered  his  wife,  for  the 
circumstances  pointed  that  way,  but  he  had  not  the  slightest  remem- 
brance of  the  deed.  He  said  he  was  crazed  with  drink  or  he  never 
would  have  committed  the  crime.  He  said:  “My  wife  was  a good 
woman,  and  faithful  mother  to  my  little  children.  Never  did  I dream 
that  my  hand  could  be  guilty  of  such  a crime.”  The  man  could  face  the 
penalty  of  the  law  bravely  for  his  deed,  but  he  broke  down  and  cried 
as  if  his  heart  would  break,  when  he  thought  of  leaving  his  children 
in  a destitute  and  friendless  condition.  I read  and  prayed  with  him  and 
left  him  to  his  fate. 

The  next  morning  I made  my  way  to  the  miserable  quarters  of 
these  children.  I found  three  little  girls  upon  a bed  of  straw  in  one 
corner  of  the  room.  They  were  clad  in  rags.  They  were  beautiful  girls 
had  they  had  the  proper  care.  They  were  expecting  the  body  of  their 
dead  father,  and  between  their  cries  and  sobs  they  would  say,  “Papa 
was  good,  but  whiskey  did  it.” 

In  a littk  time  two  strong  officers  came,  bearing  the  body  of  the 
dead  father  in  a rude  pine  box.  They  set  it  down  on  two  old  rickety 
stools.  The  cries  of  the  children  were  so  heartrending  that  they  could 
not  endure  it,  and  made  haste  out  of  the  room,  leaving  me  alone  with 
this  terrible  scene. 


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STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


In  a moment  the  manly  boy  nerved  himself  and  said : “Come, 
sisters ; kiss  papa’s  face  before  it  is  cold.”  They  gathered  about  his 
face,  smoothed  it  down  with  kisses,  and  between  their  sobs,  cried  out: 
“Papa  was  good,  but  whiskey  did  it.”  “Papa  was  good,  but  whiskey 
did  it.” 

I raised  my  heart  to  God  and  said : “O  God,  did  I fight  to  save  a 
country  that  would  derive  a revenue  from  a traffic  that  would  make 
one  scene  like  this  possible?”  In  my  heart  I said:  “In  the  whole 
history  of  this  accursed  traffic,  there  has  not  been  enough  revenue 
derived  to  pay  for  one  such  scene  as  this.  The  wife  and  mother  mur- 
dered, the  father  hung,  the  children  outraged,  a home  destroyed.”  I 
there  promised  my  God  that  I would  vote  to  save  my  country  from  the 
rule  of  the  rum  oligarchy. 

A system  of  government  that  derives  its  revenue  from  results  such 
as  are  seen  in  this  touching  picture,  must  either  change  its  course  or 
die,  unless  God’s  law  is  a lie. — Alex.  Hoagland  in  the  Newsboys’  Friend. 

BROKE  HIS  PLEDGE. 

A small  brown  hand  held  up  a pledge-card  wrapped  up  in  a bit  of 
tissue  paper,  and  such  a tone  of  misery,  shame  and  deep  despair  rang 
in  the  words,  that  I hastened  to  say  consolingly,  “Never  mind.  Flash;  I 
will  get  you  another  card  if  you  will  be  more  careful.” 

“But  it’s  broke  — the  pledge  is  broke.  I’ve  been  drinking.” 

“Drinking,  Flash!”  I cried,  hotly;  for  this  boy,  vile,  dirty,  ignoranr 
as  he  was,  had  a place  very  near  my  heart,  and  I had  hoped  much 
for  him. 

Flash  was  one  of  the  boys  who  had  been  brought  into  the  mission, 
and,  though  small  and  thin  for  want  of  proper  food,  was  bright,  cheerful, 
truthful  and  noticeably  quick,  as  to  have  earned  for  himself  the  name 
of  “Flash”  among  the  street  comrades. 

As  he  stood  leaning  against  the  door  in  a hopeless  way,  I looked  at 
him  sharply  and  saw  great  red  welts  all  along  his  neck  and  running 
down  under  his  ragged  collar.  There  were  marks,  too,  on  his  hands, 
and  a tangle  of  brown  hair  partly  hid  a dark  line  across  his  forehead. 

“Tell  me  about  it.  Flash,”  I said  gently  enough  now. 

“It’s  nothing,”  said  he,  hesitatingly;  “only  I did  mean  to  keep  my 
word.  You  know,  ma’am,  that  Billy  and  I live  with  father  down  the 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


323 


alley  there,  and  how  father  drinks  and  beats  us  when  he  chances  to  feel 
like  it;  and  sometimes  he  brings  the  stuff  home  and  tries  to  make  us 
drink,  but  we  never  have  since  we  promised  till  last  night.  He  wa'^ 
powerfully  bad  then.  We  heard  him  cursing  as  he  came  up  the  stairs, 
and  I’d  just  time  to  hide  Billy  before  he  came  in.  He  had  a big  bottle 
full  of  something  and  made  me  bring  a cup,  and  said  that  I should 
drink  anyway.  But  I wouldn’t  ’a’  drinked  if  he’d  killed  me,  and  he 
knew  it,  I guess,  for  he  begun  asking  for  Billy.  I was  hoping  he 
wouldn’t  find  him,  but  he  did.  I tell  you  I was  afraid  then.  Billy’s  only 
six,  but  he’s  a hero.  Father  dragged  him  along  by  the  collar  and  told 
him  he  had  something  good  for  him  in  the  bottle.  Billy  told  him  that 
he  knew  what  it  was,  and  that  he’d  never  drink  it.  Why,  ’twould  ’a’ 
made  your  flesh  creep  to  ’a’  heard  him  go  on  then.  But  Billy  never  gave 
in.  His  face  was  white  and  his  eyes  were  just  like  stars,  and  he 
wouldn’t  drink. 

Father  choked  him  then  till  he  was  limp,  and  beat  him  till  he 
couldn’t  stand  it,  and  I told  him  I’d  give  up  if  he’d  let  Billy  off.  He 
made  me  drink  ever  so  many  times.  He  and  I drank  all  there  was  in 
the  bottle,  and  pretty  soon  he  went  to  sleep  on  the  floor;  but  my  head 
didn’t  swim  even.  I picked  Billy  up  and  carried  him  away  and  hid 
him.  I can  take  care  of  Billy  and  he  needn’t  drink;  but  I promised 
mother  I’d  stick  by  father,  and  so  I stays  there.  I wouldn’t  drink  if  I 
could  help  it,  but  my  pledge  is  broke.” 

As  Flash  stood  twirling  his  old  cap  in  his  bruised  hands  and  looked 
hopelessly  out  at  his  future,  such  a hatred  sprang  up  in  my  heart  against 
alcohol  that  I felt  like  calling  on  the  whole  temperance  army  to  charge 
and  charge  and  charge  again  on  this  most  merciless  tyrant. — Way  of 
Faith. 

A FIVE-DOLLAR  INVESTMENT. 

The  following  incident  is  one  that  offers  inspiration  and  encourage- 
ment for  those  who  are  endeavoring  to  hold  out  to  others  a hand  that 
is  helpful. 

A dark-visaged,  unkempt  man,  who  had  evidently  been  on  a pro- 
tracted spree,  but  whose  face  retained  some  evidences  of  refinement, 
shuffled  up  to  the  desk  of  Stephen  Merritt,  in  his  New  York  office,  one 
bright  summer  morning  a little  more  than  ten  years  ago.  In  his  hand 


324 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


he  carried  a battered  hat,  but  so  much  did  he  tremble  from  the  effects 
of  long  abstinence  from  strong  drink,  that  the  hat  fell  from  his  grasp, 
as  he  stood  waiting  for  the  merchant  to  look  up.  A week’s  growth  of 
beard  gave  his  face  a tramp-like  appearance. 

“Mr.  Merritt,”  he  began,  falteringly,  “I  have  been  told  that  you 
are  a friend  to  the  unfortunate ” 

There  was  something  in  the  tone  of  the  speaker’s  voice  that  caused 
Mr.  Merritt  to  stop  writing  and  turn  sharply.  He  looked  the  man  over 
scrutinizingly.  A pair  of  pathetic  dark  eyes  looked  appealingly,  straight 
into  his.  The  tramp  had  once  been  a gentleman  — that  was  plain. 

“I  am  unfortunate;  will  you  help  me?” 

In  his  bluff  way  the  philanthropist  pretended  to  be  angry  at  the 
suggestion,  and  exclaimed : 

“Not  a cent  for  a drunkard!  I have  all  I can  do  to  assist  those  who 
are  worthy.  How  dare  you  ask  me  for  money,  when  you  know  that 
you  will  go  straight  to  a rum-shop  with  it?” 

“Try  me,”  he  replied,  as  he  bit  his  lips ; “try  me.” 

Down  into  his  vest  pocket  went  the  hand  of  the  merchant,  bringing 
forth  a five-dollar  bill.  Handing  it  over,  he  said,  earnestly : 

“I  will  try  you ; but,  if  I am  deceived,  as  I have  so  often ” 

“You  won’t  be,  IMr.  Merritt,”  interrupted  the  man;  “you  won’t  be. 
Your  kindness  will  make  a man  of  me.” 

He  grasped  the  hand  of  his  benefactor  and,  in  a choking  voice, 
promised  to  reform,  and  let  him  know. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  of  the  same  day.  The  merchant- 
philanthropist  was  about  to  leave  his  office.  He  had  been  busy  all 
day,  partly  with  the  demands  of  his  business,  and  partly  with  the  claims 
of  the  poor.  A fine-looking  man  of  about  thirty-five  was  his  last  caller. 

“What  can  I do  for  you,  sir?”  Mr.  Merritt  asked. 

“I  have  called,”  said  the  stranger,  “to  show  you  I have  kept  my 
promise.” 

“What  promise?  Who  are  you?” 

“Why,  Mr.  Merritt,  don’t  you  remember  me?  I called  only  this 
morning.” 

“This  morning!  I never  saw  you  before  in  all  my  life.” 

A merry  smile  brightened  the  dark  face  of  the  caller.  His  clean- 
shaven features  alone  would  have  prevented  recognition.  But  in 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


325 


addition  to  a shave,  he  had  fresh  linen,  a well-blacked  pair  of  shoes, 
plain  but  neat  clothing,  and  a trim  hat.  These  had  worked  a trans- 
formation in  his  appearance  marvelous  to  behold.  It  required  earnest 
assurance  on  his  part  to  convince  Merritt  that  his  two  callers  were 
one  and  the  same  man. 

So  delighted  was  the  philanthropist  with  the  result  of  his  experiment, 
that  he  procured  work  for  the  man  in  a publisher’s  office,  addressing 
envelopes  at  fifteen  cents  a hundred. 

“Do  you  know  who  that  man  is?”  asked  a visitor  to  the  publishing 
house,  as  he  noticed  the  quiet  figure  of  the  new  mailing  clerk. 

“No.” 

“He  is  John  G.  Wooley,  one  of  the  most  brilliant  men  of  the  West, 
a man  of  the  highest  education  and  mental  power.  As  a lawyer  in 
Minneapolis,  he  was  easily  the  leader  of  the  bar  of  his  state,  his  practice 
netting  him  from  twenty  to  twenty-five  thousand  dollars  a year.  But  he 
fell,  a victim  of  strong  drink.” 

The  struggle  upward  was  a bitter  one  for  the  reformed  man,  but  it 
was  brightened  by  love  and  helpfulness  of  true  friends.  Then,  one 
Sunday  afternoon,  he  made  his  first  temperance  speech  at  Cooper 
Union,  New  York.  It  was  electrical.  Thrilling  as  were  the  words  to 
the  auditors,  the  speech  was  destined  to  have  a still  more  powerful 
effect  upon  the  speaker.  It  opened  up  a new  vista  of  religion  to  him. 
Strengthened  by  the  consolations  of  religion,  and  encouraged  by  the 
promptings  of  his  wife,  of  his  friends,  and  of  his  own  heart,  Mr. 
Wooley  resolved  to  devote  his  life  to  the  work  of  saving  others  from 
the  drink  evil.  His  own  reformation  being  permanent,  his  great  talents 
began  to  find  play.  Within  a year,  there  burst  on  the  sky  of  temperance . 
reform  a star  of  the  first  magnitude,  a man  of  such  impassioned 
eloquence,  that  he  swayed  audiences  as  no  temperance  lecturer  had 
done  since  the  days  of  John  B.  Gough. 

One  day  a splendid-looking  couple  drove  up  to  the  office  of  Mr. 
Merritt,  and  alighted.  The  one  was  Mr.  Wooley,  the  other  his  devoted 
wife,  her  face  beaming  with  happiness.  It  was  the  anniversary  of  the 
day  when  the  greenback  had  been  given  to  the  tramp.  The  interview 
that  followed  was  very  dramatic.  When  it  was  over,  three  people  were 
wiping  their  eyes. 


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STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


“1  knew  you  would  be  glad  to  see  the  good  your  five-dollar  bill 
has  accomplished,”  said  Mr.  Wooley. 

‘T’d  sell  out  my  business  to-morrow,”  said  the  grizzled  veteran, 
“if  I could  invest  the  money  so  it  might  bring  as  good  returns.” — Chris- 
tian Standard. 

THE  MODERATE  DRINKING  HABIT  HIS  RUIN. 

The  New  York  World  thus  tells  the  story  of  the  downfall  of  a well- 
known  New  York  bank  clerk: 

Garvin  R.  Dick,  formerly  clerk  of  the  check  department  of  the 
Chase  National  Bank,  sat  on  a bench  in  the  room  for  visitors  at  the 
work-house  on  Blackwell’s  Island.  He  wore  prison  trousers,  prison 
shoes  and  a prison  hat. 

“Tippling  brought  me  here,”  he  said,  “just  a drink  or  two  a day 
with  a friend.  That’s  what  downed  me.  Moderate  drinking  is  the  most 
insidious  form  of  indulgence. 

“It  was  moderate  drinking  that  also  brought  my  wife  here.  She 
had  her  circle  of  friends,  and  they  had  their  social  glass.  She  will  agree 
with  me  that  the  hard  drinker  has  not  so  much  to  fear  as  those  who 
take  a social  glass  regularly.” 

Dick  and  his  wife,  whose  maiden  name  was  Gertrude  Bancker, 
popular  in  the  Harlem  set,  were  taken  to  the  Island  at  the  same  time, 
sentenced  for  six  months  because  neither  could  give  the  required  bond 
of  $300. 

Friends  of  Dick  who  used  to  know  him  when  he  stood  behind  the 
grating  of  the  Chase  National  and  counted  up  the  checks  and  classified 
them,  would  not  have  recognized  in  the  thin-faced,  white-haired,  unshorn 
prisoner,  feebly  and  penitently  telling  of  his  downfall,  the  same  smiling, 
jovial  and  confident  young  man  who  was  pointed  out  as  a model  to  many 
of  the  subordinate  clerks  in  the  big  bank. 

T didn’t  bring  my  wife  down  with  me.  I didn’t  cause  her  to  take 
up  drinking,”  he  said.  “It  was  her  circle  of  friends  with  whom  she 
used  to  take  a social  glass  when  they  came  together,  that  caused  her  to 
b'e  here  with  me. 

“I  had  no  idea  that  I would  ever  be  as  low  as  this.  I came  to  New 
York  from  New  Brunswick,  Canada,  more'  than  twenty-five  years  ago. 

I was  barely  more  than  a boy  then,  and  I had  hopes  of  accomplishing 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


327 


something  in  the  big  city.  It  was  the  habit  of  all  the  people  in  my 
Canadian  neighborhood  to  take  a glass  of  whisky  when  they  wanted  it. 
I thought,  too,  that  I could  drink  like  a gentleman  and  suffer  no  ill 
effects.  I got  a position  twenty-three  years  ago  with  the  bank  as  one 
of  the  clerks  at  fifteen  dollars  a week.  I worked  hard,  and  was  shortly 
afterward  advanced.  Two  years  later  I married  and  we  were  very  happy 
together. 

“Whenever  the  boys  would  ask  me  out  to  have  a drink,  I would  not 
refuse,  but  I was  not  what  one  might  call,  in  the  habit  of  drinking. 
I knew  that  I could  stop  at  any  time. 

“Mrs.  Dick  did  not  drink  in  those  days. 

“By  hard  work,  in  a year  or  two  I was  advanced  again,  and  we 
took  a more  pretentious  home.  I had  several  friends  at  the  bank,  but, 
of  course,  they  would  not  endanger  their  position  now  by  trying  to  do 
anything  for  me.  You  know  how  particular  a bank  is. 

“I  suppose  it  must  be  the  case  with  all  drunkards,  but  the  first 
thing  I knew,  I got  to  be  so  dependent  upon  my  daily  amount  of 
stimulant  that  I would  be  nervous  if  I left  off.  In  the  meantime,  I 
noticed  that  my  wife  also  would  ask  for  a drink  before  meals  and  before 
retiring. 

“She  seemed  to  take  to  it  at  first  to  be  congenial  with  me,  but  she 
told  me  she  had  learned  to  drink  at  a friend’s  house.  I did  not  try  to 
stop  her,  because  I expected  no  ill  effects.  I always  did  my  work 
regularly  at  the  bank.  The  first  intimation  that  anything  was  wrong 
came  a year  ago,  when  the  surety  company  which  protected  my  position 
went  off  my  bond. 

“The  bank,  of  course,  notified  me  that  I would  have  to  leave.  I 
got  out.  In  the  meantime  I had  saved  up  no  money  and  had  to  borrow 
from  friends.  I thought  there  would  be  no  trouble  in  getting  a new  place, 
but  after  a man  gets  to  a certain  age  in  New  York,  no  business  has  any 
use  for  him,  and  it  was  then  that  I realized  that  I had  cultivated  the 
drink  habit  so  far  that  I was  permanently  injured  by  it. 

“It  was  impossible  for  me  to  get  any  position.  I got  more  dis- 
couraged and  began  to  drink  heavier.  Mrs.  Dick  also  began  to  drink 
more.  From  the  tippler  she  soon  was  changed  into  the  confirmed 
inebriate. 

“We  are  here,  both  of  us,  until  next  July,  and  we  can  both  attribute 
our  present  state  to  the  moderate  drinking  habit.” 


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CHANGE  YOUR  HITCHING  POST. 

During  some  recent  revival  services  in  a western  town,  a young 
farmer  named  George  Wilcox,  living  several  miles  in  the  country,  came 
in  every  evening  to  attend  the  meetings,  and  became  very  deeply  con- 
victed of  sin.  He  was  well  liked  by  all  his  friends,  and  so  much  interest 
was  manifested  in  his  salvation  that  there  was  much  joy  when  one 
evening  toward  the  close  of  the  meeting,  he  was  happily  converted. 

Young  Mr.  Wilcox  was  somewhat  given  to  drink;  and  being  of  a 
social  nature  and  with  no  great  force  of  character,  though  with  the  best 
of  intentions,  the  saloon  element  of  the  town  was  in  a fair  way  to  drag 
him  down  to  ruin.  He  did  not  drink  much,  but  he  stayed  around  the 
saloons  and  with  that  crowd  far  more  than  was  good  for  him.  He  was 
moderately  well  to  do,  and  had  a fine  team  of  horses  and  a good  wagon ; 
and  whenever  he  came  to  town  on  business,  he  hitched  his  team  on  a 
vacant  lot  near  one  of  the  saloons,  which  seemed  a most  fitting  place,  as 
he  stayed  there  so  much  of  his  time.  After  he  was  converted,  however, 
he  never  went  around  the  saloons  any  more  or  associated  with  that 
crowd ; but  through  force  of  habit  he  still  hitched  his  team  at  the  same 
place  on  the  unoccupied  lot,  where  a number  of  posts  had  been  set  in 
the  ground  for  that  purpose.  This  he  kept  up  for  several  months  after 
his  conversion,  though  he  never  went  into  the  near-by  saloon. 

One  Saturday  afternoon.  Deacon  Hawkins,  who  lived  in  the  country 
on  the  opposite  side  of  town  from  Mr.  Wilcox,  met  him  in  town  for  the 
first  time  after  the  young  man’s  conversion,  and  found  his  team  hitched 
near  the  saloon  as  usual.  Deacon  Hawkins  was  a white-haired  old  man 
with  a very  warm  heart,  a man  who  felt  a deep  interest  in  the  welfare 
of  every  member  of  the  church,  and  especially  in  all  young  men  who  had 
recently  begun  the  Christian  life.  He  had  a fatherly  wa}',  which  made 
him  loved  by  all.  Deacon  Hawkins  had  not  been  able  to  attend  the 
meeting  much,  owing  to  serious  sickness  in  his  family  and  also  because 
he  lived  so  far  away.  He  was  not  there  tlie  night  George  Wilcox  was 
converted,  but  had  heard  of  it.  He  also  knew  that  the  young  farmer  was 
impulsive  and  easily  influenced  by  whatever  crowd  he  happened  to  be  in; 
so  the  first  thing  he  said  to  him  after  gripping  his  hand  warmly,  was; 
“Well,  George,  I understand  that  you  have  accepted  Christ  and  joined 
the  church,  and  that  you  are  living  a better  life  now.” 

“Yes,  sir,”  said  Wilcox,  earnestly;  “I  am,” 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


329 


“And  I understand  that  you  have  quit  the  saloon  gang,  and  that 
you  never  go  about  them.” 

“Yes,  sir.” 

“But  I see,  George,  that  you  hitch  your  team  in  the  same  old  place.” 

“Why,  yes,”  said  Wilcox,  in  some  surprise,  “I  do.  It’s  a good  place 
to  hitch,  and  no  harm  can  come  from  that,  can  there?”  and  he  looked  his 
question  as  he  asked  it. 

“Well,  George,  I am  a great  deal  older  man  than  you  and  have  had 
much  experience,  and  you  will  pardon  me,  I know,  if  I make  a suggestion 
to  you  as  a brother,  out  of  my  wider  Christian  experience.  No  matter 
how  strong  you  think  you  are,  take  my  advice,  and  at  once  change  your 
hitching  post.” 

The  advice  so  lovingly  given  was  followed  by  the  young  man  within 
a very  few  minutes,  and  never  again  did  he  hitch  near  the  saloon.  While 
he  might  have  held  out  firm  and  true  all  his  life  without  making  the 
change,  yet  no  one  will  deny  that  he  was  far  safer  in  the  end,  following 
the  advice  of  the  deacon. 

And  in  the  same  spirit  I would  say  to  all  who  are  tempted,  no 
matter  how  firm  3TOU  think  you  can  be,  no  matter  how  you  scorn  to 
believe  you  could  be  influenced  by  evil  companions  and  evil  surroundings, 
change  your  hitching  post.  And  I am  persuaded  that  those  who  think 
themselves  strongest,  need  such  advice  more  than  those  who  feel  their 
weakness.  It  is  always  safest  to  stay  as  far  from  temptation  as  possible. 
If  you  have  recently  given  your  life  to  Christ  and  broken  with  vicious 
companions  and  turned  your  back  upon  former  wicked  ways,  the  farther 
you  keep  from  these  old  associations  the  surer  you  are  to  remain  firm. 
Even  if  the  change  in  you  amounts  to  no  more  than  turning  over  a new 
leaf  or  forming  good  resolutions,  still  the  wisest  thing  to  do  is  to  change 
your  hitching  post. — Isaac  Motes,  in  Epworth  Era. 

A GIRL  DRUNKARD. 

The  superintendent  of  a New  York  home  recently  related  the  story 
of  her  own  experience  in  rescue  work,  so  wonderful  and  so  encouraging 
to  wretched  victims  of  sin,  that  it  ought  to  be  made  public.  The  story, 
in  substantially  her  own  language,  was  as  follows : 

“I  was  sent  for  one  morning,  many  years  ago,  by  one  of  the  judges 
of  the  court,  who  had  before  him  a girl  sixteen  years  of  age.  The  girl’s 


330 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


father  had  caused  her  arrest  and  had  appealed  to  the  court  to  sentence 
her  to  some  home  as  an  incorrigible. 

“The  history  of  the  girl  was  this : At  twelve  years  of  age  she  had 
been  put  to  service  in  the  dining  room  of  a saloon  as  a waitress.  Her 
duties  required  her  to  serve  liquors,  and  she  acquired  a passion  for  drink 
and  became  a drunkard. 

“I  never  saw  a human  being  that  loved  liquor  as  she  did.  She 
could  drink  down  a glass  of  clear  whiskey  with  the  greatest  relish,  and 
she  had  absolutely  no  control  over  her  appetite.  At  sixteen  she  was  a 
confirmed  drunkard  and  street  walker.  She  was  devoid  of  any  moral 
principle  and  had  a perfectly  insane  temper. 

“The  judge  heard  the  case  and  sentenced  her  to  the  home  of  which 
I was  superintendent.  When  she  learned  her  destiny,  she  flew  into  an 
uncontrollable  rage.  She  screamed  and  fought  and  cursed  like  a demon. 
She  had  to  be  taken  to  the  home  by  main  force,  and  when  she  got  there, 
we  were  at  our  wits’  end  what  to  do  with  her.  She  was  perfectly  law- 
less, desperately  ugly,  and  her  manner  was  more  like  a demon  than  a 
human  being.  We  tried  all  sorts  of  treatment  for  her;  we  tried  to  win 
her  love;  we  tried  to  reason  with  her;  then  we  tried  punishing  her  — in 
fact,  we  exhausted  our  resources  all  to  no  purpose.  For  three  years  that 
girl  kept  our  home  in  a turmoil.  Nothing  we  could  do  had  any  effect 
upon  her.  She  attended  our  gospel  services,  but  to  all  appearances  they 
had  no  influence  over  her. 

“At  the  end  of  three  years  a change  came  over  her.  She  began  to 
pray  and  to  believe  in  God.  After  that  we  had  her  under  control,  we 
sent  her  out  to  service  in  a Christian  family  on  a farm  in  a neighboring 
state.  She  was  a small  girl,  not  very  strong,  but  she  took  hold  of  the 
heavy  work  of  a servant's  place  in  a country  home  with  an  amazing  vim. 
It  seemed  as  if  she  couldn’t  do  enough  for  her  employers. 

“But  the  work  was  too  much  for  her,  and  after  the  first  year  she 
returned  to  us  quite  worn  out  and  broken  down.  Then  she  took  up  fancy 
work  and  became  an  expert.  The  finest  kind  of  work  seemed  to  come 
perfectly  natural  to  her. 

“When  the  term  of  her  sentence  expired,  at  twenty-one  years  of 
age,  she  left  our  home  and  supported  herself  by  doing  the  fancy  work 
learned  in  the  home.  She  was  then  one  of  the  most  lovable,  sweet- 
mannered,  kind-hearted,  gentle  girls  that  I ever  knew.  We  all  loved  her, 
and  she  used  to  come  and  instruct  other  girls  in  fancy  work.  She  had 

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STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


331 


grown  to  be  a very  handsome  girl,  with  a fair  complexion  and  a beautiful 
face. 

“A  young  man  out  of  an  excellent  family  iu  our  city  became 
interested  in  her,  and  finally  married  her,  and  took  her  to  his  father’s 
home,  where  she  was  admitted  on  equal  terms  with  the  other  sons  and 
daughters,  of  whom  there  were  several.  She  became  a favorite  with 
them  all,  and  the  father-in-law  speaks  of  her  endearingly  as  his  ‘little  kid.’ 

“You  asked  me  if  I knew  of  any  cases  of  girls  rising  from  a life  of 
shame  to  respectable  womanhood,  and  my  answer  is  this  true  story  of  a 
girl  who  is  now  the  mother  of  a dear  little  girl,  and  who  is  one  of  the 
loveliest  Christian  characters  of  my  acquaintance.  It  is  one  of  many 
evidences  that  there  is  no  limit  to  the  power  and  grace  of  God. 

“Jesus  is  ‘able  to  save  to  the  uttermost  all  that  come  unto  God  by 
Him.’  What  a refuge  the  Lord  is  to  every  sinner  who  will  flee  to  Him 
for  help.” — National  Advocate. 

WHO’S  TO  BLAME? 

Two  men  were  shot  here  one  night  by  a policeman,  one  of  them  was 
hurled  into  eternity  without  a moment’s  warning,  the  other  died  a few 
days  afterwards.  Some  drunken  men  were  fighting  and  were  very 
riotous,  on  an  interurban  car.  The  conductor  telegraphed  to  the  police 
at  Carlinville,  to  take  care  of  these  men  when  the  car  arrived,  which 
resulted  as  above  stated. 

Some  want  to  lay  the  blame  on  the  policeman,  but  if  these  men  had 
not  been  drunk  there  would  have  been  no  cause  for  arrest.  Drink  was 
the  cause.  The  saloon-keeper  sold  the  drink,  and  the  people  who  had  an 
opportunity  last  November  of  voting  the  saloons  out  of  that  neighbor- 
hood, voted  to  give  them  license.  Who  is  to  blame? 

The  voters  will  have  an  opportunity  to  vote  against  this  cursed  evil. 
There  is  one  party,  and  only  one,  that  advocates  its  total  abolition.  Will 
you  feel  clear  before  God  if  you  neglect  to  cast  your  ballot  against  this 
awful  iniquity? — Selected. 

THE  SALOON-KEEPER  AND  HIS  CHILD. 

I remember  when  I first  began  to  work  for  the  Lord  fifteen  or  six- 
teen years  ago,  there  was  a Boston  business  man  who  was  converted 


332 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  CCMERCE 


there  and  stayed  there  three  months,  and  when  leaving, -he  said  to  me 
that  there  was  a man  living  on  such  a street  in  whom  he  was  very  much 
interested,  and  whose  boy  was  in  the  high  school,  and  he  had  said  that  he 
had  two  brothers  and  a little  sister  who  didn’t  go  anywhere  to  Sabbath 
school,  because  their  parents  would  not  let  them. 

This  gentleman  said,  “I  wish  you  would  go  round  and  see  them.” 
Well,  I went  and  found  that  the  parents  lived  in  a drinking  saloon,  and 
that  the  father  kept  the  bar.  I stepped  up  to  him  and  told  him  what  I 
wanted,  and  he  said  he  would  rather  have  his  sons  become  drunkards, 
and  his  daughter  a harlot,  than  have  them  go  to  our  schools.  I thought 
it  looked  pretty  dark,  and  he  was  pretty  bitter  to  me,  but  I went  a 
second  time,  thinking  I might  find  him  in  a better  humor.  He  ordered 
me  out  again.  I went  a third  time  and  found  him  in  a better  humor. 
He  said,  “You  are  talking  too  much  about  the  Bible.  Well,  I will  tell 
you  what  I will  do ; if  you  will  teach  them  something  reasonable,  like 
‘Paine’s  Age  of  Reason,’  they  may  go.”  Then  I talked  further  to  him, 
and  finally  he  said,  “If  you  will  read  Paine’s  book,  I will  read  the  New 
Testament.”  Well,  to  get  hold  of  him,  I promised,  and  he  got  the  best 
of  the  bargain.  We  exchanged  book's,  and  that  gave  me  a chance  to 
call  again  and  talk  with  that  family.  One  day  he  said,  “Young  man,  you 
have  talked  so  much  about  church,  now  you  can  have  a church  down 
here.  “ What  do  you  mean  ? ” “ Why,  I will  invite  some  friends,  and  you 
can  come  down  and  preach  to  them;  not  that  I believe  a word  you  say, 
blit  I do  it  to  see  if  it  will  do  us  chaps  any  good.”  “Very  well,”  I said; 
“ now  let  us  have  it  distinctly  understood  that  we  have  a certain  definite 
time.”  He  told  me  to  come  at  11  o’clock,  saying,  “I  want  you  to  under- 
stand that  you  are  not  to  do  all  the  preaching.”  “ How  is  that  ? I shall 
want  to  talk  some,  and  also  my  friends.”  I said,  “ Supposing  we  have  it 
understood  that  you  are  to  have  forty  minutes  and  I fifteen,  is  that  fair  ? ” 
Well,  he  thought  it  was  fair.  Pie  was  to  have  the  first  forty  and  I the  last 
fifteen  minutes.  I went  down,  and  behold,  the  saloon-keeper  wasn’t  there. 
I thought  perhaps  he  had  backed  out,  but  I found  that  the  reason  was, 
he  had  found  that  his  saloon  was  not  large  enough  to  hold  all  his  friends, 
and  he  had  gone  to  a neighbor’s  whither  I went  and  found  two  rooms 
filled. 

There  were  atheists,  infidels,  and  scoffers  there. 

I had  taken  a little  boy  with  me,  thinking  he  might  aid  me.  The 
tnoment  I got  in,  they  plied  me  with  all  sorts  of  questions,  but  I said  I 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


333 


hadn’t  come  to  hold  any  discussion  that  they  had  been  discussing  for 
years  and  had  reached  no  conclusion.  They  took  up  the  forty-five  min- 
utes of  time  talking,  and  the  result  was  there  were  not  twO'  who  could 
agree.  Then  came  my  turn.  I said,  “We  always  open  our  meetings 
with  prayer;  let  us  pray.”  I prayed,  and  thought  perhaps  some  one 
else  would  pray  before  I got  through.  After  I finished  the  little  boy 
prayed.  I wish  you  could  have  heard  him.  He  prayed  to  God  to  have 
mercy  upon  those  men  who  were  talking  so  against  His  Beloved  Son. 
His  voice  sounded  more  like  an  angel’s  than  a human  voice.  After  we 
got  up,  I was  going  to  speak,  but  there  was  not  a dry  eye  in  the 
assembly. 

One  after  another  went  out,  and  the  man  I had  been  after  for  months, 
and  sometimes  it  had  looked  pretty  dark,  came,  and  putting  his  hands 
on  my'  shoulder,  with  tears  streaming  down  his  face,  said,  “Mr.  Moody, 
you  can  have  my  children  go  to  your  Sunday-school.” 

The  next  Sunday  they  came,  and  after  a few  months  the  oldest  boy, 
a promising  young  man,  then  in  the  high  school,  came  upon  the  plat- 
form, and  with  his  chin  quivering  and  the  tears  in  his  eyes,  said,  “I  wish 
to  ask  these  people  to  pray  for  me;  I want  to  become  a Christian.” 

..God  heard  and  answered  our  prayers  for  him.  In  all  my  acquain- 
tances, I don’t  know  a man  whom  it  seemed  more  hopeless  to  reach.  I 
believe  if  we  lay  ourselves  out  for  the  work,  there  is  not  a man  in  this 
city  but  can  be  reached  and  saved.  I don’t  care  who  he  is ; if  we  go  in 
the  name  of  our  Master,  and  persevere  until  we  succeed,  it  will  not  be 
long  before  Christ  will  bless  us,  no  matter  how  hard  their  heart  is. 

“We  shall  reap  if  we  faint  not.”  I didn’t  have  a warmer  friend  in 
Chicago ; he  was  true  to  me. — D,  L.  Moody. 

THAT  BOY. 

Do  you  see  that  boy?  Look  at  him;  see  his  shabby  clothing,  worn 
hat  and  scufify  shoes.  You  notice  his  face  is  bright,  but  has  care  and 
purpose  in  it.  You  notice  he  is  moving  rapidly,  with  intent  on  getting 
to  some  given  point,  manifest  in  every  motion  of  his  little  frame. 

Let  me  tell  you  about  that  boy.  His  father  has  been  dead  some 
years.  He  is  the  oldest  of  five  children,  mere  tots  the  others  are,  and  he 
is  working  like  a little  Turk  to  help  his  mother  support  them.  He  never 
loses  a day.  He  never  wastes  a nickle.  He  hurries  by  fruit  stands  and 


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STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


candy  stores  and  his  eyes  sweep  over  the  good  things  that  children  like 
so  much,  but  hastens  on.  The  scant  earnings  of  his  faithful  week’s  toil 
are  gripped  in  that  hand  in  his  pocket.  He  will  give  every  cent  of  it  to 
his  mother  and  look  up  into  her  face  with  a look  of  love  and  hope,  and 
regret  that  it  is  not  more,  and  will  promise  that  it  shall  be  more  when  he 
gets  larger.  How  his  great,  bright  eyes  talk  to  her!  How  his  loving 
heart  goes  out  to  her ! 

Talk  about  heroes  — that  boy  is  a true  hero.  Do  you  know  I love 
that  little  lad  with  all  my  heart?  I would  love  to  give  him  a little  lift. 
Let  him  work  on,  it  will  make  a man  of  him ; but  cheer  him  up  with  a 
good  word.  Slip  a nice  book  into  his  hand  for  a Christmas  gift.  Let 
him  feel  that  he  has  a friend  who  is  interested  in  him.  Find  him  a better 
job  if  you  can,  and  get  him  out  to  Sabbath  school  and  church.  Give  him 
sympathy.  Don’t  make  a fuss  over  him  or  flatter  him ; let  him  fight  his 
battle  out,  but  slip  a little  ammunition  to  him. 

But  did  you  know  there  is  a man  after  this  boy?  He  will  take  that 
money  out  of  his  pocket  if  he  can ; he  will  destroy  his  love  for  his 
mother,  harden  his  heart  and  blast  his  life.  Do  you  know  who  that  man 
is?  I will  tell  you:  He  is  the  saloon-keeper.  Think  of  it!  Could  any- 
thing be  more  vile?  Say,  remember  this  saloon-keeper  at  the  November 
election,  and  put  one  in  against  him. — Selected  by  Church  Advocate. 

JIM’S  PRACTICAL  ADDRESS. 

One  day  a young  man  not  far  from  thirty-five  arose  in  the  meeting 
to  speak.  He  was  prematurely  old ; his  face  was  scarred  and  furrowed, 
and  he  was  bruised  and  mangled  by  the  old  serpent,  the  snake  of  the 
still.  He  had  signed  the  pledge  on  his  knees.  God  had  helped  him  to 
keep  it  for  three  months.  He  said: 

“On  coming  to  this  meeting,  I passed  some  of  my  old  resorts  in 
125th  street.  I was  spied  out  by  a young  fellow  with  whom  I had  had 
many  a carouse.  He  exclaimed,  ‘Hallo,  Jim ; they  say  you  have  got 
religion  ; I’d  like  to  know  what  religion  has  done  for  you  !’ 

“I  replied:  ‘Go  ask  my  wife!  She  will  tell  you  what  a brute  I 
was,  and  what  a drunkard ; what  a terror  I was  to  my  children,  and  how 
I bruised  her;  how  my  small  earnings  went  to  the  till  of  the  rum-seller. 
There  was  no  meal  in  the  barrel ; no  fire  in  the  stove ; no  food  on  the 
table*  My  little  girl  had  no  shoes,  and  cried  from  hunger  and  cold. 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


335 


Many  and  many  a stormy  and  bitter  night  my  wife  had  watched  outside 
the  bar-room  to  take  me  home,  lest  I should  perish  with  the  cold.  She 
did  this,  though  she  knew  I would  curse  her  and  beat  her  when  I got 
home.” 

“Ask  my  wife,  and  she  will  say:  ‘What  has  religion  done  for  him? 
Walk  in  and  look.  Our  home  isn’t  elegant;  but  it  is  comfortable.  Jim 
don’t  carry  his  money  to  the  saloon  now ; he  brings  it  home  every  Satur- 
day night.  He’s  a good  worker  when  drink  is  out  of  him ; and  he  makes 
us  very  comfortable  indeed.  The  little  girl  whom  Jim  loves  so  well 
watches  for  his  coming  at  the  window,  and  doesn’t  run  and  hide  herself 
when  she  hears  his  footsteps.  He  doesn’t  swear  over  our  food  now ; but 
asks  God’s  blessing  on  it.  Instead  of  putting  a drunken,  brutal  man  to 
bed,  with  profanity  and  oaths,  he  says : ‘Read  us  a little  bit  of  God’s 
Word  before  we  go  to  sleep.’  ‘Yes,  that’s  what  religion  has  done  for 
Him.’  ” — Selected  by  Vanguard. 

DID  NOT  LIKE  THE  CROWD. 

The  Lewiston  Journal,  a Maine  paper,  tells  a story  of  the  times  of 
the  great  temperance  agitation  in  1884.  In  those  days  practically  every 
retail  merchant  in  the  country  kept  liquor  for  sale  or  to  give  away.  In 
a Kennebec  village  an  old  grocer,  otherwise  a reputable  man,  derived  a 
considerable  part  of  his  income  from  the  sale  of  rum. 

The  temperance  revival  had  .come  to  this  village,  and  a question  of 
action,  friendly  or  unfriendly  to  the  liquor  traffic,  had  arisen  in  the 
town  meeting.  A division  was  demanded,  and  those  in  favor  of  the 
traffic  went  to  one  side  of  the  town  hall,  and  those  opposed  to  it,  to  the 
other. 

The  respectable  grocer  referred  to,  watched  this  process,  and  saw, 
evidently  to  his  surprise,  that  the  people  to  whom  he  had  been  dealing 
out  liquor  for  years  were  not  as  good-looking  as  the  people  on  the  other 
side  of  the  hall,  t^inally  he  arose  and  joined  the  opponents  of  the  traffic. 

“What  are  you  over  there  for?”  some  one  asked  him.  “Are  you 
opposed  to  the  sale  of  intoxicating  liquors?” 

“No-o ” 

“Then  that’s  your  side  over  there.” 

The  old  grocer  looked  around  angrily  at  the  men  on  the  other  side 


336 


STORIES  OF  KELL’S  COMMERCE 


and  replied:  “You  don’t  suppose  I’m  going  over  there  with  that  crowd 
of  red  noses,  do  you?” 

His  view  of  his  customers,  all  in  a bunch,  had  made  a temperance 
man  of  him. 

If  the  men  who  vote  upon  the  question  of  license  or  no  license  in  the 
various  towns  and  cities  could  only  have  a photograph  of  the  victims  of 
drink  that  stand  on  the  other  side  of  the  line  in  the  fight,  they  might 
say:  “I  am  ashamed  of  such  company,  and  will  not  keep  it,  nor  will  I 
be  in  the  least  degree  responsible  for  the  conditions  that  are  expressed  in 
their  appearance.” — Selected  by  Church  Advocate. 

THE  ENGINEER’S  REMEDY 

My  engineer  was  a gray-haired,  thick-set  man  of  fifty,  quiet  and 
unobtrusive,  and  deeply  in  love  with  his  beautiful  machine.  He  had 
formerly  run  a locomotive,  and  now  took  a stationary  engine  because 
he  could  get  no  employment  on  the  railroads.  A long  talk  with  the 
superintendent  of  the  road  from  which  he  had  been  removed  revealed 
only  one  fault  in  the  man’s  life ; he  loved  strong  drink. 

“He  is,”  said  my  informant,  “as  well  posted  on  steam  as  any  man 
on  the  road ; he  worked  up  from  train-boy  to  fireman,  from  fireman  to 
engineer,  has  rendered  us  valuable  services,  has  saved  many  lives  by 
his  quickness  and  bravery,  but  he  cannot  let  liquor  alone,  and  for  that 
reason  we  have  discharged  him.” 

In  spite  of  this  discouraging  report,  I hired  the  man.  During  ths 
first  week  of  Ids  stay  I passed  through  the  engine  room  many  times  a 
day,  in  the  course  of  my  factory  route,  but  never  found  ought  amiss. 
The  great  engine  ran  as  smoothly  and  as  quietly  as  if  its  bearings  were 
set  in  velvet ; the  steel  cross-head,  the  crank-shaft  and  the  brass  oil- 
cups,  reflected  the  morning  sun  like  mirrors;  no  speck  of  dust  found 
lodging  in  the  room.  In  the  fire-room  the  same  order  and  neatness 
prevailed,  the  steam  gauge  showed  even  pressure,  the  water  gauges 
were  always  just  right,  and  our  daily  report  showed  that  we  were 
burning  less  coal  than  formerly.  The  most  critical  inspector  failed  to 
find  anything  about  the  engine  or  boilers  that  showed  the  faintest 
symptoms  of  neglect  or  carelessness. 

Three  weeks  passed.  The  man  who  had  been  recommended  as 
“good  for  five  days’  work  and  then  two  days’  drink”  had  not  sweiwen 


JOHN  B.  GOUGH. 

“Young  men,  ahoy!  What  is  it?  Beware,  beware!  The  rapids  are  below 
you.  Now  you  feel  them!  See  the  water  foaming  all  around!  See  how  fast  you 
pass  that  point!  Up  with  the  helm!  Now  turn!  Pull  hard,  quick,  quick.  Pull  for 
your  lives!  Pull  till  the  blood  starts  from  the  nostrils  and  the  veins  stands  like 
whipcord  upon  the  brow.  Set  the  mast  in  the  socket,  hoist  the  sail!  Ah,  ah,  it  is 
too  late;  faster  and  faster  you  near  the  awful  cataract,  and  then  shrieking, 
cursing,  howling,  praying,  over  you  go.  Thousands  go  over  the  rapids  of  intem- 
perance every  year.”- — Extract  from  John  B.  Gough’s  celebrated  lecture,  “The 
Niagara  Falls  of  Intemperance.” 


THEODORE  ROOSEVELT 

“The  liquor  business  tends  to  produce  criminality  in  the  population  at  large 
and  law  breaking  among  the  saloonkeepers  themselves.— If  the  American  people 
do  not  control  it,  it  will  control  them. 


STORIiit;  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


a hair’s-breadth  from  his  duty.  The  gossips  were  beginning  to  notice 
and  comment  on  the  strange  affair. 

‘T  should  like  to  speak  with  you  a moment,  sir,”  said  he  one 
morning,  as  I passed  through  his  sanctum. 

“Well,  John,  what  now?”  I said,  drawing  out  my  note-book. 
“Cylinder  oil  all  gone?” 

“It’s  about  myself,”  he  replied.  I motioned  him  to  proceed. 

“Thirty-two  years  ago  I drank  m3'  first  glass  of  liquor,”  said  the 
engineer,  “and  for  the  past  ten  years,  up  to  the  last  month,  no  week 
has  passed  without  a Saturday  night  drunk.  During  those  years  I was 
not  blind  to  the  fact  that  appetite  was  geting  a frightful  hold  on  me. 
At  times  my  struggle  against  the  longing  for  stimulant  were  earnest ; 
my  employers  once  offered  me  a thousand  dollars  if  I would  not  touch 
liquor  for  three  months,  but  I lost  it ; I tried  all  sorts  of.  antidotes,  and 
all  failed.  My  wife  died  praying  that  I might  be  rescued,  yet  my 
promises  to  her  were  broken  within  two  days.  I signed  pledges,  and 
joined  societies,  but  appetite  was  still  my  master.  My  employers 
reasoned  with  me,  discharged  me,  forgave  me;  but  all  to  no  effect.  I 
could  not  stop,  and  I knew  it.  When  I came  to  work  for  you  I did  not 
expect  to  stay  a week;  I was  nearly  done  for;  but  now!”  and  the  old 
man’s  face  lighted  up  with  an  unspeakable  joy,  “in  this  extremity,  when 
I was  ready  to  plunge  into  hell  for  a glass  of  rum,  I found  a sure 
remedy!  I am  saved  from  my  appetite?” 

“What  is  your  remedy?” 

The  engineer  took  up  an  open  Bible  that  lay,  face  down,  on  the 
window  ledge  and  read,  “The  blood  of  Jesus  Christ  cleanseth  us  from 
all  sin.” — Selected  by  Gospel  Herald. 

THE  RUM-SELLER’S  DREAM. 

“Well,  wife,  this  is  too ‘horrid!  I cannot  continue  this  business 
any  longer.” 

“Why,  dear,  .what  is  the  matter  now?” 

“O  such  a dream,  such  rattling  of  dead  men’s  bones,  and  such  an 
army  of  starved  mortals,  so  many  murders,  such  cries,  and  shrieks,  and 
3''ells,  and  such  horrid  gnashing  of  teeth,  and  glaring  eyes,  and  such 
a blazing  fire,  and  such  devils  — oh!  I cannot  endure  it.  My  hair 


338 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


stands  on  end,  and  I am  so  filled  with  horror  I can  scarcely  speak.  Oh, 
if  I ever  sell  rum  again !” 

“My  dear,  you  are  frightened.” 

“Yes,  indeed,  I am;  another  such  night  will  I not  pass  for  worlds.” 

My  dear,  perhaps ” 

“Oh,  don’t  talk  to  me.  I will  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  rum, 
anyhow.  Wife,  poor  old  Tom  Wilson  came  to  me  with  his  throat 
cut  from  ear  to  ear,  and  such  a horrible  gash,  and  it  was  so  hard  for 
him  to  speak  and  so  much  blood;  and  says  he,  ‘See  here,  Joe,  tl;ie  result 
of  rum-selling.’  My  blood  chilled  at  the  sight,  and  just  then  the  house 
seemed  to  turn  bottom  up,  and  then  the  earth  opened,  and  a little  imp 
took  me  by  the  hand,  saying,  ‘Follow  me.’  As  I went  grim  devils  held 
out  to  me  cups  of  liquid  fire,  saying,  ‘Drink  this.’  I dared  not  refuse. 
Every  draught  set  me  in  a rage.  Serpents  hissed  on  each  side,  and  from 
abpve  reached  down  their  heads  and  whispered,  ‘Rum-seller.’  On  and 
on  the  imp  led  me  through  the  narrow  pass.  All  at  once  he  paused 
and  said,  ‘Are  you  dry?’  ‘Yes,’  I replied.  Then  he  struck  a trap-door 
with  his  foot,  and  down,  down  we  went,  and  legions  of  fiery  serpents 
followed  us,  whispering,  ‘Drunkard,  drunkard.’  At  length  we  stopped 
again,  and  the  imp  asked  me  as  before,  ‘Are  you  dry?’  ‘Yes,’  I replied. 

He  then  touched  a spring,  a door  flew  open,  there  were  thousands 
of  worn-out  rum-drinkers,  crying  most  piteously,  ‘Rum,  rum,  give  me 
some  rum.’  When  they  saw  me  they  stopped  a moment  to  see  who  I 
was.  Then  the  imp  cried  out,  so  as  to  make  all  shake  again,  ‘Rum-seller.’ 
And  hurling  me  in,  shut  the  door.  For  a moment  they  fixed  their 
ferocious  eyes  upon  me,  and  then  uttered  the  yell,  ‘Damn  him,’ — which 
filled  me  with  terror.  I awoke.  There,  wife,  dream  or  no  dream,  I will 
never  sell  another  drop  of  the  infernal  stuff!” 

“Woe  to  him  that  buildeth  his  house  by  unrighteousness,  and  his 
chambers  by  wrong.”  “Woe  unto  him  that  giveth  his  neighbor  drink, 
ifliat  puttest  thy  bottle  to  him  and  makest  him  drunken.  ” — Pentecost  Herald. 

INGERSOLL’S  AND  BUCKLEY’S  VIEW  OF  A WHISKEY 

BOTTLE. 

A young  friend  of  Colonel  Ingersoll  was  ill  with  pneumonia  and  his 
physician  had  prescribed  whisky.  The  colonel  happened  to  have  or 
hand  some  very  fine  old  bourbon,  and  sent  a bottle  of  it  to  his  young 
friend  with  a letter,  in  which  he  said: 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


339 


“I  send  you  some  of  the  most  wonderful  whisky  that  ever  drove  the 
skeleton  from  a feast  or  painted  landscapes  in  the  brain  of  man.  It  is 
the  mingled  souls  of  wheat  and  corn.  In  it  you  will  find  the  sunshine 
and  the  shadow  that  chased  each  other  over  the  billowy  fields ; the 
breath  of  June;  the  carol  of  the  lark;  the  dews  of  night;  the  wealth  of 
summer  and  autumn’s  rich  content  — all  golden  with  imprisoned  light. 
Drink  it,  and  you  will  hear  the  voices  of  men  and  maidens  singing  the 
‘Harvest  Home,’  mingled  with  the  laughter  of  children.  Drink  it,  and 
you  will  feel  within  your  blood  the  star-lit  dawns,  the  dreamy,  tawny 
dusks  of  many  perfect  days.  For  forty  years  this  liquid  joy  has  been 
within  the  happy  staves  of  oak,  longing  to  touch  the  lips  of  men.” 

* * * 

Dr.  Buckley’s  paraphrase  of  Ingersoll’s  letter  on  whisky ; 

“I  send  you  some  of  the  most  wonderful  whisky  that  ever  brought 
a skeleton  into  the  closet  or  painted  scenes  of  lust  and  bloodshed  in  the 
brain  of  man.  It  is  the  ghost  of  wheat  and  corn  crazed  by  the  loss  of 
their  natural  bodies.  In  it  you  will  find  a transient  sunshine  chased  by 
a shadow  as  cold  as  arctic  midnight,  in  which  the  breath  of  June  grows 
icy  and  the  carol  of  the  lark  gives  place  to  the  foreboding  cry  of  the 
ravens.  Drink  it,  and  you  shall  have  woe,  sorrow,  babbling  and  wounds 
without  cause;  your  eyes  shall  behold  strange  women  and  your  heart 
shall  utter  perverse  things.  Drink  it,  and  you  shall  hear  the  voices  of 
demons,  shrieking  women,  wailing  and  worse  than  orphaned  children 
mourning  the  loss  of  a father  who  yet  lives.  Drink  it  .deep  and  long,  and 
serpents  shall  hiss  about  your  neck  and  seize  you  with  their  fangs,  for 
‘at  last  it  biteth  like  a serpent  and  stingeth  like  an  adder.’  For  forty 
years  this  liquid  death  has  been  within  the  staves  of  oak  — harmless 
then  as  pure  water.  I send  it  to  you  that  you  may  ‘put  an  enemy  in 
your  mouth  to  steal  away  your  brains,’  and  yet  I shall  call  myself  your 
friend.” — Selected. 

CLOSED  ON  ACCOUNT  OF  DEATH. 

A young  man,  the  proprietor  of  a saloon,  wine-room  and  some 
adjacent  disreputable  houses,  was  seemingly  doing  a thriving  business 
along  his  line.  Time  and  again,  as  we  saw  him  dressed  up  with  his 
white  vest,  gold  chain,  etc.,  getting  hold  of  young  men,  young  women 
and  even  children,  our  very  soul  burned  within  us,  for  we  thought  of  the 


340 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


many  he  was  influencing  in  the  downward  way.  How^  often,  as  we 
passed  his  saloon  on  the  way  to  and  from  the  mission,  did  we,  like 
Lot  in  Sodom,  vex  our  souls  with  the  thought  of  the  unlawful  deeds 
performed  under  his  direction ! All  unexpectedly  we  had  an  opportunity 
of  warning  this  man  of  the  awful  danger  awaiting  those  who  continue  in 
sin,  for  he,  with  a number  of  other  saloon  devotees  and  disreputable 
people  attended  a funeral  where  we  were  called  upon  to  talk.  How 
thankful  we  were  that  this  special  saloonkeeper  was  there  to  hear  the 
truth ! but,  alas,  instead  of  heeding  this  warning  cry,  which,  so  far  as 
we  know,  was  his  last  call  of  mercy,  he  still  continued  his  awful  business 
— yet  only  for  a short  time.  In  his  own  saloon,  at  about  one  o’clock 
one  morning,  this  saloonkeeper,  whom  we  believed  to  be  doing  more 
harm,  reaching  more  young  men  and  women  and  leading  them  on  in  sin 
than  any  other  young  man  around  here,  w'as  suddenly  struck  on  the  head 
with  a billiard  cue  by  an  angry  man,  and  knocked  perfectly  senseless. 
After  being  taken  to  the  hospital  he  died  without  recovering  con- 
sciousness. 

The  lights  in  the  saloon  windows  were  turnea  low,  the  token  of 
mourning  was  on  the  door,  and  a sign  there  read,  “Closed  on  account 
of  death.”  The  curtains  were  drawn  for  a few  days,  but  before  the 
young  man  was  laid  away  (His  brother  came  and  took  the  body  to 
Iowa  for  interment.}  the  lights  were  shining  out  from  the  saloon,  and 
revelry  began.  Soon  the  music  and  other  evident  signs  told  of  the 
damnable  work  progressing  behind  the  screens  of  that  awdul  den  of 
iniquity. 

A few  years  of  putting  the  bottle  to  his  neighbors’  lips,  a few  years 
of  leading  young  men  and  women  on  in  the  broad  way,  a few  paltry 
dollars  to  spend  in  the  devil’s  service  — yes,  just  a few  years  down 
here  to  curse  humanity -—but  a never-ending  eternity  to  wail  with  the 
lost  and  lament  over  his  failure  to  heed  that  last  warning  cry,  and  over 
the  many  he  led  on  tow'ard  perdition!  Did  it  pay?  Could  this  same 
young  man  who  was  so  heartily  engaged  in  the  saloon  work  when 
suddenly  killed,  speak  back  from  that  lone  land  of  dark  despair,  he  would 
doubtless  be  earnestly  warning  men  and  women  of  the  awful,  irretriev- 
able loss  connected  with  this  abominable  business. 

We  dare  say  that  on  the  last  great  day,  when  the  books  are 
opened,  many  will  stand  aghast  at  the  appalling  results  of  this  licensed 
abomination  — this  mother  of  harlots  — which  is  capturing  so  many 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


341 


of  our  brightest  boys  and  girls  and  training  them  for  lives  of  unmention- 
able shame.  If  those  already  tainted  by  this  saloon  leprosy  were,  like 
the  lepers  of  Bible  times,  compelled  to  cry  out,  “Unclean ! unclean !”  what 
a mournful,  blood-curdling  v/ail  would  sweep  over  our  land  to-day ! 
Better,  far  better,  could  we  afford  to  have  the  physical  fingers,  toes  and 
limbs  of  our  young  people  drop  off  from  the  effects  of  that  incurable 
disease  than  to  have  them  robbed  of  purity,  self-respect,  noble  manhood 
and  womanhood  and  heaven  at  last ! 

Thatik  God  that  so  many  are  saying,  with  united  voice,  “The  saloon 
must  go !”  How  soon  it  must  go,  and  how  soon  the  boys  and  girls  of 
our  land  will  be  protected  from  this  great  menace  to  society,  will  depend, 
to  a great  extent,  upon  the  votes  of  the  professed  Christians  of  this 
boasted  land  of  the  free. — Olive  Branch. 

STOPPED  THE  TRAIN  THREE  TIMES. 

There  is  no  argument  that  is  more  frequently  made  by  the  man 
who  indulges  in  intoxicating  liquors  than  that  of  personal  liberty.  If  a 
man  wants  to  drink,  that  is  his  own  affair,  and  for  any  one  to  try  to 
deprive  him  from  that  privilege  is  to  trespass  on  personal  rights. 

This,  of  course,  sounds  plausible,  and  is  liable  to  cause  some  of  the 
very  elect  to  stumble.  It  would  be  all  very  well  if  a man  lived  unto 
himself  alone.  If  he  were  merely  a huge  drinking  tube,  if  no  one 
depended  upon  him,  if  he  were  not  a member  of  a complicated  social 
structure,  such  an  argument  might  hold.  But  — well,  we  are  all  familiar 
with  the  responsibilities  of  father  and  of  citizen  as  affected  and 
jeopardized  by  the  liquor  traffic.  The  other  day  there  occurred  an 
incident  that  presents  an  argument  from  an  economic  standpoint. 

Up  in  the  central  part  of  New  Hampshire  there  is  a little  town  of 
fifteen  hundred  inhabitants  that  voted  “yes”  at  the  last  election,  and 
since  that  time  the  place  has  been  the  Mecca  of  drinkers.  None  of  the 
large  places  in  the  immediate  vicinity,  nor  for  fifty  miles  around,  for 
that  matter,  went  for  license.  Hence,  wholesale  liquor  places,  the  bottle 
seller  and  the  retailer  all  moved  to  this  town.  And  drunks  have  gone 
there  whenever  they  desired  to  “enjoy”  themselves.  The  town,  to 
paraphrase  an  old  dictum,  has  been  butchered  to  make  a drunkard’s 
holiday.  But  a man  can  drink  if  he  vrants  to,  says  the  advocate  of 
license.  It  is  his  personal  right.  Lock  licre! 


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STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


The  other  day  when  the  northbound  passenger  train  was  going ' 
through  the  limits  of  the  town  in  question,  the  engineer,  who  is  himself 
a Christian  man,  was  obliged  to  stop  his  engine  three  times  because  of 
drunks.  How  did  it  happen?  Why,  he  looked  ahead  as  he  drove  his 
engine  along,  to  see  if  there  were  obstacles  on  the  track,  and  three  times 
vithin  the  limits  of  that  town  he  saw,  lying  across  the  rails,  the  forms 
of  poor  drunken  individuals.  To  save  ther  lives  he  must  stop  the 
express  train,  and  have  some  one  go  ahead  and  remove  the  bodies  from 
the  tracks. 

Personal  liberty ! Has  a man  a right  to  put  himself  in  such  a 
condition  that  he  will  hold  up  two  or  three  hundred  people  who  are 
traveling  across  the  country?  The  United  States  mail,  the  express 
companies’  business,  traveling  salesmen,  for  great  concerns  — everything 
must  stop,  for  there  is  a drunkard  on  the  track ! That  is  personal  liberty 
gone  mad. — Selected  by  Church  Advocate. 

THE  SALOON. 

A few  years  ago  a country  boy,  contrary  to  the  wishes  of  his  good 
mother,  came  to  Danville,  Va.,  and  entered  the  saloon  business.  The 
memory  of  home  and  the  prayers  of  his  mother  set  his  conscience  on  fire. 
He  drank  liquor  to  drown  his  conscience,  and  continued  the  wicked 
business.  On  he  went  in  rebellion  against  his  mother  and  his  God. 
drinking  and  selling  liquor.  Fearful  spells  of  delirium  would  come  at 
the  end  of  his  long  sprees.  When  he  was  twenty-three  years  old,  in  an 
awful  spell  of  delirium  tremens,  he  crawled  behind  his  bed ; his  friends 
were  unable  to  hold  him  in  bed,  and  over  next  to  the  wall  behind  his 
bed,  mixing  drinks  in  his  delirium,  he  died  — fulfilling  the  prophecy, 
“Woe  unto  him  that  giveth  his  neighbor  drink !” — Stories  and  Parables. 

DRINKING  UP  FARMS. 

The  Rev.  John  F.  Hill,  in  the  Presbyterian  Banner,  gives  a graphic 
illustration  of  the  waste  caused  by  intemperance.  He  says  to  the  tippler : 
“My  homeless  friend,  with  the  cromatic  nose,  while  you  are  stirring  up 
the  sugar  in  a ten-cent  glass  of  gin,  let  me  give  you  a fact  to  wash  down 
with  it.  You  say  you  have  longed  for  years  for  the  free,  independent  life 
of  the  farmer,  but  have  never  been  able  to  get  enough  of  money  together 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


343 


to  buy  a farm.  But  this  is  just  where  you  are  mistaken.  For  several 
years  you  have  been  drinking  a good  improved  farm  at  the  rate  of  100 
square  feet  at  a gulp.  If  you  doubt  this  statement,  figure  it  out  yourself. 
An  acre  of  land  contains  43,560  square  feet.  Estimating,  for  convenience, 
the  land  at  $43.56  per  acre,  you  will  see  that  it  brings  the  land  to  just 
one  mill  per  square  foot.  Now,  pour  down  the  fiery  dose  and  imagine 
that  you  are  swallowing  a strawberry  patch.  Call  in  five  of  your  friends 
and  have  them  gulp  down  that  500-foot  garden.  Get  on  a prolonged 
spree  some  day  and  see  how  long  a time  it  requires  to  swallow  a pasture 
large  enough  to  feed  a cow.  Put  down  that  glass  of  gin,  there’s  dirt, 
worth  $43.56  per  acre.” 

A TEMPERANCE  COAT. 

It  was  a bitter  winter’s  night  that  Mr.  Pearse  had  taken  a cab  from 
a London  suburb,  and  on  reaching  home  bade  the  driver  come  in  and 
get  something  warm  and  comfortable,  but  non-intoxicating.  He  noticed 
that  “cabby”  had  no  overcoat,  and  inquired  how  it  was  that  he  was  so 
insufficiently  clad.  The  man  explained  his  poverty,  and  Mr.  Pearse 
said:  “Well,  now.  I’ve  got  a coat  upstairs  that  would  suit  you.  But 
before  I give  it  to  you,  I’m  bound  to  tell  you  that  there  is  something  very 
peculiar  about  that  coat,  and  it  is  right  I should  explain  it  to  you  before 
you  put  it  on.” 

“What’s  that,  sir?”  said  the  man,  considerably  mystified,  and  not 
knowing  whether  he  might  not  find  it  wise  to  decline  the  mysterious 
garment. 

Said  Mr.  Pearse,  solemnly : “That  coat  never  had  a glass  of  beer  or 
spirits  inside  of  it  from  the  day  it  was  made  until  now.  I want  you  to 
promise  me  as  long  as  you  wear  that  coat  you  will  let  'the  drink’  alone.” 

“All  right,  sir,”  said  cabby,  holding  out  his  hand ; “all  right,  sir, 
I will  not  upset  the  coat  by  putting  drink  inside  of  it.” 

Many  months  afterwards  Mr.  Pearse  met  the  same  man  again,  and 
learned  that  he  had  kept  to  his  bargain,  and  that  the  coat  had  never 
been  disgraced  by  drink. — Selected  by  God’s  Revivalist. 

THE  BOLD  APPRENTICE. 

A little  fellow  who  had  been  brought  up  a staunch  teetotaler,  was 
about  to  be  apprenticed.  The  foreman  offered  him  a glass  of  beer.  The 


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little  fellow  said,  “I  never  touch  that  stuff.”  “Hello,  youngster,”  said 
the  foreman,  “we  never  have  teetotalers  here.”  “If  you  have  me  you'll 
have  one,”  returned  the  boy.  The  foreman  said : “There’s  only  one 
master  here.  You’ll  either  have  this  glass  of  beer  inside  or  outside.” 
The  boy  said : “You  can  please  yourself ; I brought  my  clean  jacket 
with  me  and  a good  character;  you  may  spoil  my  jacket,  but  you  shan’t 
spoil  my  character. ’’-Way  of  Faith. 

JACK  AND  HIS  SHIPMATES. 

A young  sailor  boy  being  strongly  solicited  by  his  shipmates  to 
join  them  in  drinking  “a  cheerful  glass,”  gave  the  following  account  of 
his  early  life : 

“My  story  is  a very  short  one,  and  I can  tell  it  in  a few  words.  From 
the  time  of  my  earliest  childhood  I never  knew  what  it  was  to  have  a 
happy  home.  My  father  was  a drunkard ! Once  he  had  been  a good 
man  and  a good  husband,  but  rum  ruined  all  his  manhood.  I can 
remember  how  cold  and  cheerless  was  our  home.  We  had  no  fire,  no 
food,  no  clothes,  no  joy,  nothing  but  misery  and  woe ! I\Iy  poor 
mother  used  to  clasp  me  to  her  bosom  to  keep  me  warm;  and  once  — 
once,  I remember,  when  her  very  tears  froze  on  my  cheek ! Oh,  how 
my  mother  prayed  for  her  husband;  and  I,  who  could  but  just  prattle, 
learned  to  pray  too.  When  I grew  older  I had  to  go  out  and  beg 
bread.  All  cold  and  shivering  I waded  through  the  deep  snow,  with 
my  clothes  in  tatters  and  my  feet  almost  bare ; and  I saw  other  children 
dressed  warmly  and  comfortably,  and  I knew  they  were  happy,  for 
they  laughed  and  sang  as  they  bounded  along  toward  school.  I knew 
that  their  fathers  were  no  better  than  mine  had  been  once,  and  would 
be  again  if  rum  were  not  in  his  way.  But  its  power  was  upon  him,  and 
though  he  often  tried,  he  did  not  escape. 

“Time  passed  on  until  I was  eight  years  old,  and  those  eight  years 
brought  such  sorrow  and  suffering  as  I hope  I may  never  experience 
again.  At  length,  one  cold  morning  in  the  dead  of  winter,  my  father 
was  not  at  home.  He  had  not  been  there  through  the  night.  My 
mother  sent  me  to  the  tavern  to  see  if  I could  find  him.  I had  gone 
half  the  way  when  I saw  something  in  the  snow  by  the  side  of  the 
road.  I stopped,  and  a shudder  ran  through  me ; it  looked  like  a human 
form.  I went  up  to  it  and  turned  the  head  over  and  brushed  the  snow 
from  the  face.  It  was  my  father;  he  was  stiff  and  cold.  I laid  my 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


345 


hand  upon  his  pale  brow,  and  it  was  like  solid  marble.  He  was  dead ! 

“I  went  to  the  tavern  and  told  the  people  what  I had  found,  and 
the  landlord  sent  two  of  his  men  to  carry  the  frozen  body  home.  O ship- 
mates ! I cannot  tell  you  how  my  mother  wept  and  groaned.  The  two 
men  went  away  and  left  the  body  still  on  the  floor,  and  then  my  mother 
wished  me  to  come  and  kneel  by  her  side.  I did  so.  ‘My  child,’  she 
said  to  me,  and  the  big  tears  rolling  down  her  cheeks,  ‘you  know  what 
has  caused  all  this.  This  man  was  once  as  noble  and  happy  and  true  as 
man  can  be,  but  oh,  see  he  has  been  stricken  down ! Promise  me,  my 
child,  O promise  here  before  God  and  your  dead  father,  and  your 
broken-hearted  mother,  that  you  will  never,  never,  touch  a single  drop 
of  the  fatal  poison  that  has  brought  us  all  this  misery.’ 

“O,  shipmates  ! I did  promise,  then  and  there,  all  that  my  mother 
asked,  and  to  this  moment  that  promise  has  never  been  broken.  My 
father  was  buried,  and  some  good  neighbors  helped  us  through  the 
winter.  When  the  next  spring  came  I could  work,  and  earn  something 
for  my  mother.  At  length  I found  a chance  to  ship,  and  did  so,  and 
every  time  I go  home  I have  some  money  for  her.  Not  for  the  wealth 
of  the  world  would  I break  the  pledge  I gave  my  mother  and  my  God 
on  the  dark,  cold  morning.  Perhaps  you  have  no  mothers ; and  if  you 
have,  they  may  not  look  to  you  for  support,  for  I know  you  too  well  to 
believe  that  either  of  you  would  bring  down  a loving  mother’s  gray 
hairs  in  sorrow  to  the  grave.  That  is  all,  shipmates.  Let  me  go  now, 
for  I do  not  believe  that  you  will  again  urge  the  wine-cup  upon  me.” 

His  shipmates,  deeply  affected  by  their  comrade’s  stirring  recital 
of  the  evils  resulting  from  indulging  in  strong  drink,  resolved  to  abstain 
in  the  future  from  the  intoxicating  cup,  and,  persevering  in  their  good 
resolutions,  became  respectable  and  useful  citizens. — Way  of  Faith. 

WHO  KILLED  THE  BOY? 

“A  boy  is  found  dead  at  the  foot  of  a stairway,  or  below  a bridge, 
with  a letter  from  his  mother,  and  a stained  photograph  of  a sweet, 
patient  face  in-  his  pocket.  He  is  known  to  have  been  alive  and  well 
and  drunk  at  midnight.  ‘Who  killed  this  boy?’  cries  the  coroner,  and 
we,  from  the  thick  cover,  pipe  like  a quail,  ‘Bob  White,  Bob  White.’ 
Bob  White  is  the  saloonkeeper;  and  when  accused,  he  says,  and  truly, 
‘The  Mayor  gave  me  leave’ ; and  we  pipe  up  the  Mayor,  who  defends 


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himself  by  saying,  ‘The  Legislature  bade  me.’  Then  we  flutter  about  the 
Legislature,  which  answers,  and  truly,  ‘I  am  the  voice  of  the  people 
crying  in  the  government : Prepare  ye  the  way  of  the  liquor  traffic ; 
make  its  path  straight  and  respectable  — or  expensive,  which  is  the 
same  thing.’  So  the  coroner,  the  judge,  the  Legislature,  and  the  voter 
play  blindman’s  buff  with  murderers,  and  Christian  men  are  trying  to 
draw  the  ark  of  God  in  government,  with  a license  and  an  indictment, 
driven  tandem.  For  license  for  liquor-sellers  and  indictments  for  liquor 
murder,  run  alike  — ‘in  the  name  of  the  people,  and  of  the  common- 
wealth’— and,  for  the  purpose  of  liquor  trials,  a criminal  court,  instead 
of  being  a place  where  justice  is  judiciously  dispensed,  is  become  a place 
where  justice  is  judiciously  dispensed  with.” 

The  wise  man  believes  the  woes  of  God  against  high  license.  “Woe 
to  him  that  buildeth  a town  with  blood  and  establisheth  a city  by 

iniquity woe  unto  him  that  giveth  his  neighbor  drink,  that 

puttest  thy  bottle  to  him,  and  makes-t  him  drunken.”  (Hab.  2: 12,  15.) — 
John  G.  Woolley. 

THE  ROOT  BEER  FRAUD. 

“Let  me  give  you  some  nice  root  beer.  There  is  no  alcohol  in  it, 
you  know.” 

“No,  I do  not  know.  How  do  you  know?” 

“Why,  that  is  what  it  says  on  the  circular.” 

“Do  you  believe  all  you  read  about  patented  stuffs?” 

“Well,  no.  The  fact  is,  I never  looked  into  this  matter.” 

“But  we  ought  to  know  what  we  take,  and  we  want  no  alcohol. 
Shall  we  examine  this?” 

“Yes,  please.  Let’s  see  how  to  examine.” 

“What  are  the  directions  for  making  root  beer?” 

“Use  water,  sweetening  and  the  extract  of  herbs  in  the  bottle,  yeast 
being  added  to  make  it  effervesce.” 

“Yes,  and  the  yeast  fermenting  breaks  up  the  sugar,  every  particle 
of  which  forms  a particle  of  the  gas  that  causes  the  effervesence,  and 
at  the  same  time  a particle  of  alcohol  that  remains  behind  in  the  beer, 
causing  the  tingle,  when  drank.  Very  few  care  for  the  beer  without  the 
tingle.” 

“This  kind  can  be  taken  without  fermentation.” 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


347 


“Yes,  this  is  the  kind  that  shows  the  largest  alcohol  flame  in  the 
testing  apparatus.  They  all  show  some.  A druggist  said  they  would 
not  keep  without  alcohol.” 

“But  really  it  cannot  contain  much  alcohol.  The  best  men  in  the 
place,  men  that  ought  to  know,  recommend  it  to  the  boys  to  take  the 
place  of  alcoholic  drinks.” 

“Similar  men  might  be  quoted  as  saying  that  wine  and  beer  drinking 
should  be  encouraged  in  order  to  do  away  with  stronger  drinks.  Even 
the  best  people  need  to  study  in  order  to  be  sure  what  is  right,  for  alcohol 
is  deceitful.  Taking  a little  in  any  form  creates  a desire  for  more,  and 
if  we  wish  security  against  the  alcoholic  appetite,  we  must  avoid  the 
smallest  beginnings.” 

“Have  you  ever  known  harm  to  come  from  the  use  of  root  beer?” 

“Yes,  I know  of  a Christian  reformed  man  who  fell,  through  the 
appetite  awakened  by  root  beer.  I am  glad  to  say  I have  known  many 
Christian  families  give  up  root  beer  because  of  its  alcohol.  Others  would 
not  now  be  using  it  if  they  had  known  how  alcohol  is  made.  So  we  say, 
‘Cry  aloud  and  spare  not.’  Improve  even  this  opportunity  to  teach  the 
people  about  alcohol.” 

JAMAICA  GINGER. 

“I  am  tired  and  cold,  aren’t  you?”  said  one  lady  to  another,  as  they 
were  shopping  one  winter  day. 

“Yes,”  replied  her  friend.  “Come  in  here  and  get  a hot  ginger,” 
invited  the  first,  and  the  two  quiet,  cultured  women  took  their  places 
with  others  at  the  counter  of  a fashionable  drug  store  and  ordered  each 
a “hot  Jamaica  Ginger.” 

They,  and  others,  sipped  and  talked,  and  after  a time  passed  out, 
but  the  proprietor  said  to  a bystander,  “Those  women  would  scorn  to  go 
to  a bar  and  get  a hot  whisky  sling,  but  they’ve  taken  their  ginger  for 
just  the  same  reason  the  toper  takes  his  dram,  because  it  braces  them 
up,  and  they  have  taken  it  for  the  alcohol  in  it,  too,  though  perhaps  they 
do  not  know  that  part  of  it.” 

“Is  it  so  strong  of  liquor  as  that?”  questioned  the  hearer.  “Cer- 
tainly,” replied'  the  druggist,  “it  contains  about  twice  as  much  alcohol 
as  whisky,  and  a ‘ginger  tipple’  is  getting  to  be  a common  thing  with 
women.”  After  a moment  he  added  thoughtfully,  “I  am  not  at  all  sure 


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STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


that  the  drink  habit  of  many  young  women  of  to-day  may  not  have 
been  cultivated  by  the  ease  with  which  the  Jamaica  Ginger  bottle  is 
opened  and  used  in  the  home.” 

This  may  seem  a harsh  statement,  but  any  one  who  will  pour  a 
little  Jamaica  Ginger  into  a small  dish  and  touch  a match  to  it,  will  see 
that  it  is  almost  pure  alcohol. 

Said  a mother  one  day  to  a friend,  who  had  thus  proved  to  her  the 
alcohol  in  her  ginger,  “I  wonder  if  that  is  why  my  boy  loves  ginger  tea 
made  of  this  kind  of  ginger  and  will  not  touch  the  old-fashioned  kind.” 
A little  effort  proved  this  to  be  the  case,  and  the  mother  was  horrified  to 
find  that  her  twelve-year-old  boy  had  already  developed  a love  for  liquor. 
It  took  the  combined  effort  of  the  mother  and  boy,  aided  by  a skilled 
physician,  to  conquer  the  awakened  appetite. 

In  these  days  when  so  much  is  being  said  of  the  danger  and  harmful- 
ness of  patent  medicines,  let  us  not  forget  that  one  of  the  most  insidious 
is  found  in  the  bottle  of  Jamaica  Ginger  which  has  its  place  on  so  many 
pantry  shelves. — Emma  Graves  Dietrick. 

A WOMAN’S  ESTIMATE. 

The  following  letter  in  the  Detroit  Journal  bares  one  woman’s  heart 
and  reveals  a life  robbed  of  all  that  is  dear  in  this  world.  We  reprint 
it  in  full : 

“Editor  The  Journal:  Allow  me  to  say  a few  words  to  the  readers 
of  your  independent  paper  in  reference  to  a clause  of  a liquor  bill  that 
has  been  introduced  in  the  house,  asking  for  compensation  for  those  that 
local  option  puts  out  of  business.  I did  not  think  that  the  people  sent 
a man  to  Lansing  with  cheek  enough  to  introduce  such  a bill.  Instead 
of  the  taxpayers  compensating  the  bloated  liquor  barons,  a bill  ought  to 
be  introduced  confiscating  what  they  have  accumulated  out  of  the 
accursed  traffic  in  the  past  ten  years,  and  this  money  ought  to  be  given 
back  to  the  criminals,  the  starving  wives  and  destitute  children  they 
have  made. 

“Twelve  years  ago  I married  a mechanic  in  a town  in  Sanilac.. 
County.  He  was  bright  and  intelligent  and  capable  of  earning  $600  a 
year.  He  got  in  the  habit  of  going  to  the  barrooms,  first  for  company 
and  then  for  drinks,  until  I had  to  take  in  washing  to  support  m}'self 
and  children. 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


349 


“After  ten  3^ears  of  poverty  and  misery',  two  months  ago  he  died  of 
delirium  tremens.  He  never  was  a bad  man,  but  was  lured  to  his  doom ; 
and  I at  middle  age  am  left  a pauper  with  two  children  to  raise.  There 
are  a dozen  men  in  this  village  who  will  soon  follow  him  to  their  graves. 
Only  for  liquor  we  would  have  been  the  happiest  couple  of  the  country. 
About  the  time  that  I got  married  a chum  of  mine  married  a bartender. 
He  afterward  got  a saloon  of  his  own,  and  eight  years  ago  he  purchased 
a building  that  he  turned  into  a hotel  for  $1,500.  It  cost  $500  to  make 
the  changes.  This  building  for  liquor  purposes,  he  says,  is  worth  $10,000. 
He  has  also  bought  a farm,  has  a race  horse,  two  bulldogs,  and  an  auto. 
His  wife  has  four  silk  dresses  and  a sealskin  sacque.  In  ten  years  he  got 
$300  of  my  husband’s  earnings. 

“Now,  if  local  option  is  carried  in  the  county,  he  wants  compen- 
sation. He  no  doubt  wants  about  $8,000  on  one  hotel  and  a pension  of 
about  $1,000  per  year  for  not  having  a business  to  make  maniacs, 
drunkards,  suicides,  tramps,  orphan  children,  destitute  wives  and  starving 
widows. 

“The  first  thing  that  we  know,  hangmen  will  be  wanting  compen- 
sation for  lost  business  in  states  where  capital  punishment  has  been 
abolished.  I will  send  the  price  of  my  next  day’s  washing  to  help  pur- 
chase a coat-of-arms  for  the  fellow  who  introduced  the  bill  with  the 
compensation  clause  in  it.  A representative  or  a senator  who  would 
vote  for  such  a measure  could  not  get  the  votes  of  three  honest  men  in 
one  state. 

“Signed^ — A Pauper  From  the  Liquor  Traffic.” 

SAVED  HIS  HAND. 

A young  laboring  man  was  brought  to  a certain  hospital  with  a 
badly  lacerated  hand.  He  had  fallen  upon  an  old  cotton  hook,  and  it  had 
gone  entirely  through  the  palm  of  his  hand,  carrying  with  it  rust  and 
dirt.  The  wound  was  kept  open  so  it  would  suppurate  freely  and  be 
readily  cleansed.  As  time  passed  the  hand  became  very  much  swollen, 
turned  black,  and  the  surgeons,  watched  carefully  for  signs  of  blood 
poisoning,  fearing  that  the  entire  hand  would  have  to  be  amputated  to 
save  the  life  of  its  possessor.  These  signs  not  appearing,  it  then  became 
a question  whether  more  of  the  hand  corild  be  saved  than  the  thumb  and 
first  two  fingers.  As  the  hand  became  no  worse,  the  surgeons  delayed 


f 


350  STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


operating  on  it,  and  after  a time  it  began  to  mend,  and  finally  healed 
entirely. 

“Young  man,”  said  the  surgeon  to  the  patient,  as  the  danger  was 
passing  away,  “do  you  use  alcohol  in  any  form?” 

“No,  sir.” 

“Do  you  use  tobacco?” 

“No,  sir.” 

With  a wave  of  his  hand,  a nod  of  his  head,  the  surgeon  murmured : 

“That  is  what  saved  your  hand.” — Temperance  Cause. 

THOSE  WHO  DRINK  ARE  DEAD. 

Senator  Chauncey  M.  Depew  said,  in  a talk  to  a railroad  man; 
“Twenty-five  years  ago  I knew  every  man,  woman  and  child  in  Peekshill, 
and  it  has  been  a study  with  me  to  take  boys  who  started  in  every 
grade  of  life  with  myself  to  see  what  has  become  of  them.  I was  up 
last  fall  and  began  to  count  them  over,  and  it  was  an  instructive  exhibit. 

“Some  of  them  became  clerks,  merchants,  manufacturers,  lawyers 
and  doctors.  It  is  remarkable  that  everyone  of  those  who  drank  are 
dead,  not  one  living  of  my  age.  Barring  a few  who  were  taken  off  by 
sickness,  everyone  has  proved  a wreck  and  wrecked  his  family,  from  rum 
and  no  other  cause. 

“Of  those  who  are  church-going  people,  who  are  steady,  industrious 
and  are  hard-working  men,  who  were  frugal  and  thrifty,  every  single  one 
of  them  without  exception  owns  the  house  in  which  he  lives  and  has 
something  laid  up,  the  interest  on  which,  with  his  home,  would  carry  him 
through  many  a rainy  day.  When  a man  becomes  debased  with 
gambling  or  drink,  he  doesn’t  care  — all  his  finer  feelings  are  crowded 
out.” — Maryland  Searchlight. 

WHAT  DRINK  DID. 

“A  two-dollar  bill  came  into  the  hands  of  a relative  of  mine,  which 
speaks  volumes  on  the  horrors  of  strong  drink  or  the  traffic  in  it.  There 
was  written  in  red  ink  on  the  back  of  it  the  following:  ‘Wife,  children, 
and  over  $40,000,  all  gone.  I am  alone  responsible.  All  has  gone  down 
my  throat.  When  I was  twenty-one  I had  a fortune.  I am  not  yet 
thirty-five  years  old.  I have  killed  my  beautiful  wife,  who  died  of  a 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


351 


broken  heart;  have  murdered  my  children  with  neglect.  When  this 
bill  is  gone,  I do  not  know  how  I can  get  my  next  meal.  I shall  die  a 
drunken  pauper.  This  is  my  last  money  and  my  history.  If  this  bill 
comes  into  the  hands  of  any  man  who  drinks,  let  him  take  warning  from 
my  life’s  ruin.’  ” — Vanguard. 

BAD  COMPANY. 

Dr.  Torrey  once  said  to  an  audience : ‘T  want  to  tell  you  how  I 
signed  the  pledge.  I was  a preacher,  but  I didn’t  believe  in  total 
abstinence.  Going  out  to  preach  one  summer,  I went  into  a town  and 
found  a temperance  revival  going  on,  and  I wished  I had  not  come. 
They  were  going  to  have  a temperance  meeting  that  night.  They  said 
to  me ; ‘Of  course  you  will  speak  at  the  meeting.’  I had  never  been 
inside  one,  for  I had  convinced  myself  that  I didn’t  believe  in  total 
abstinence.  What  should  I do?  I thought  over  it;  I prayed  over  it;  I 
spent  almost  the  whole  day  in  prayer.  I prayed  it  through,  and  it 
became  as  clear  as  day  that,  if  for  nothing  more  than  my  influence,  I 
ought  to  take  my  stand  and  sign  the  pledge.  I went  down  to  the 
meeting,  and  a speaker  delivered  his  little  speech.  Then  he  said : ‘Every- 
body in  the  room  who  has  never  signed  the  pledge,  stand  up !”  An  old 
drunkard,  a lady  and  myself  were  the  only  ones  in  the  building  who 
stood  up.  As  far  as  the  lady  was  concerned,  she  was  good-looking,  and 
I didn’t  feel  in  bad  company.  I went  up  and  signed  the  pledge.  The 
lady  walked  up,  and  she  signed  the  pledge.  . She  is  here  to-night.  She  is 
my  wife  now.  She  was  seventeen  and  I was  twenty.  The  old  drunkard 
came  up  and  signed  the  pledge,  too.  Men  and  women,  I want  to  repeat 
what  I said  the  other  night:  If  you  can  get  along  just  as  well  without 
the  drink,  sign  the  pledge  for  your  brother’s  sake.  If  you  can’t  get  along 
just  as  well  without  it,  sign  the  pledge  for  your  own  sake.” — Selected  by 
Living  Water. 


NOT  WORTH  THE  PRICE. 

Among  the  mountains,  some  years  ago,  there  lived  a man  who  made 
a living  by  catching  rattlesnakes.  The  reason  he  could  thus  make  a 
living  was  that  all  the  fools  are  not  dead  yet.  He  caught  rattlesnakes 
and  put  them  in  boxes  and  covered  them  with  glass  and  exhibited  them 


352 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


on  his  front  porch  upon  the  public  road,  and  sold  them  to  curiosity 
hunters.  This  mountaineer  had  one  child,  a fat-faced,  chubby-handed, 
sweet  little  child  he  called  Jim.  He  always  met  him  on  his  home-coming 
at  the  front  gate.  The  old  mountaineer,  when  not  bringing  home  a rattle- 
snake, would  gather  him  in  his  arms  and  kiss  his  chubby  face.  He  could 
taste  the  sweetness  of  his  boy’s  cheek  through  the  heavy  layer  of  dirt. 
Jim  was  the  most  precious  object  on  earth  to  him.  He  brought  a rattle- 
snake from  the  mountains  one  day,  placed  it  alive  in  the  glass-covered 
box,  slipped  the  lid  over  it,  and  stepped  out  to  the  wood  pile  to  chop 
some  wood.  Little  Jim  came  up  to  the  glass-covered  box,  pulled  back 
the  lid,  and,  with  his  chubby,  little  hands  pulled  the  live  reptile  on  the 
lap  of  his  little  linsey  dress.  The  snake  planted  his  fangs  in  the  cheek  of 
the  little  fellow  while  he  screamed,  “Papa!  papa!  papa!”  The  father 
hearing  his  cries,  ran  with  ax  in  hand,  slipped  the  handle  of  the  axe 
into  the  coils  of  the  snake,  threw  it  into  the  yard,  and  chopped  its  head 
off.  Gathering  little  Jim  in  his  arms,  he  began  to  cry:  “Jim’s  dead! 
Jim’s  dead  !”  His  neighbor,  Tom,  hearing  the  cry,  ran  over  to  his  cabin 
home.  As  the  little  boy  lay  on  his  mother’s  lap,  his  body  swelling  and 
his  eyes  bloodshot,  the  mountaineer  said  to  his  neighbor:  “Tom,  little 
Jim  is  going  to  die,  and  I would  not  give  little  Jim  for  every  rattlesnake 
on  these  old  mountains  and  for  every  dollar  I have  made  off  them.” 

Brother,  we  have  the  serpent  of  the  still,  and  have  put  him  in  our 
glass-front  saloons  for  the  hope  of  the  revenue.  But  our  boys  have 
stepped  off  the  home  steps  and  walked  down  into  the  glass-front  saloons, 
pulled  this  serpent  upon  their  hearts  and  lives,  and  the  great  cry  comes 
up  from  all  the  earth  to-day:  “IMy  boy  is  gone!  my  boy  is  gone!” 
I never  look  into  the  bloated  face  or  bloodshot  eyes  of  a drunken 
American  boy  without  saying  in  my  heart : “I  would  not  give  that  one 
American  boy  for  every  dollar  we  have  made  off  the  infernal  stuff.” — 
G.  R.  Stuart  in  Herald  of  Light. 

OH,  THOU  CURSED  DRINK! 

The  following  tragedy,  enacted  upon  the  stage  of  life  by  a victim  of 
the  poison  which  at  last  “biteth  like  a serpent  and  stingeth  like  an  adder,” 
was  related  by  Mr.  John  G.  Wooley,  the  great  temperance  lecturer.  The 
story  is  this : 

There  was  a young  man  in  one  of  the  Western  States,  one  of  the 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


353 


unfortunate  ones  who  seem  to  have  been  born  with  an  almost  unquench- 
able appetite  for  strong  drink,  but  in  all  other  respects  a man  of  splendid 
qualities.  His  station  in  life  was  humble,  but  he  possessed  abilities  that 
might  have  enabled  him  to  make  his  life  a success 

He  married  a pure,  good  young  woman,  to  whom  he  was  deeply 
attached,  and  who  sincerely  returned  his  affection. 

Strong  drink  affects  men  in  various  ways ; some  drink  daily ; others 
have  periodic  cravings,  while  still  others  are  driven  mad  at  the  very 
sight  and  smell  of  it.  John,  that  being  the  name  of  the  young  man,  was 
an  example  of  the  last. 

Soon  after  marriage  he  and  his  bride  establshed  a comfortable  little 
home,  and  for  some  time  everything  was  well  with  them ; his  promise  to 
her  before  marriage  that  henceforth  he  would  no  more  yield  to  his 
besetting  sin  caused  her  trustful,  loving  heart  to  hope  that  his  pledge 
would  be  kept. 

One  day,  a farmer  living  at  some  distance  from  their  home  engaged 
the  young  couple  to  help  him. 

As  they  were  walking  home  after  their  day’s  labor,  light-hearted  and 
happy  in  the  anticipation  of  a restful  and  quiet  evening,  they  were  over- 
taken by  an  acquaintance  of  the  young  man,  who  invited  them  to  seats  in 
his  wagon.  After  riding  some  distance  the  acquaintance  reached  down 
into  the  body  of  the  wagon  and  brought  out  a bottle  of  whisky  and 
invited  the  young  man  to  take  a drink  with  him.  The  wife  started  up 
in  agony,  crying,  “John,  don’t  touch  it;  don’t  touch  it.”  He  paid  sullen 
silence  to  her  tearful  pleading,  he  who  had  been  so  tender  and  gentle 
heretofore ; his  tempter  laughed  sneeringly  at  his  submission  to  the 
control  of  a woman. 

Upon  nearing  their  destination,  the  husband  and  wife  left  the  wagon, 
John  full  of  anger  with  his  wife  for  her  interference,  being  sensitive  to 
the  ridicule  of  his  false  friend,  and  influenced'  still  more  by  the  aroused 
craving  which  the  sight  of  the  bottle  had  created. 

Upon  reaching  home  he  attended  to  his  evening  chores  and  then 
disappeared,  his  wife  having  entered  the  house.  John  went  to  a distant 
tavern  and  began  to  drink  heavily,  until  the  doors  were  closed  upon  him. 
By  that  time  he  had  become  like  a demon  as  he  staggered  home. 

In  the  morning  — but  oh!  how  shall  the  horrible  story  be  related! 
He  awoke  to  find  that  he  had  become  a murderer,  his  victim  being  his 


354 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


own  noble  wife,  whom  he  had  slain,  not  knowing  what  he  was  doing,  in 
his  drunken  fury,  angry,  no  doubt,  at  her  gentle  rebuke. 

Mr.  Wooley  defended  him  at  the  trial.  The  proof  was  so  positive 
that  the  prisoner’s  hand  had  done  the  cruel  deed  that  the  verdict  of  the  T 
jury  was  murder  in  the  first  degree.  Poor  John  was  permitted  to  r.- 
address  a few  words  to  the  judge,  in  which  he  said:  “Judge,  I did  the  it 
deed';  yet  it  was  not  I who  did  it,  but  the  whiskey,  for  dearly  did  I love 
my  wife.” 

His  remorse  was  powerless  to  avert  the  penalty  meted  out  by  the 
stern  decree  of  the  law. — Selected  by  God’s  Revivalist.  * 

A WIFE  BECAME  AN  OPEN  BOOK. 

A wicked,  drunken  woman,  in  one  of  our  large  cities,  was  attracted 
into  a church  one  Sunday  evening  and  was  converted  to  Christ.  The 
pastor  of  the  church  went  to  see  her  husband,  and  found  him  a very 
shrewd  mechanic,  who  was  very  bitter  against  Christianity,  and  greatly 
fascinated  with  Ingersoll’s  sneers  at  the  Bible.  He  was  full  of  contempt 
at  his  wife’s  profession  of  conversion,  and  said  he  had  no  doubt  she’d 
soon  get  over  it.  Six  months  passed  away  and  one  evening  this  man 
called  to  see  the  minister  in  great  anxiety  concerning  his  own  salvation. 

He  said : “I  have  read  all  leading  books  on  the  evidences  of  Christianity, 
and  I can  stand  out  against  their  arguments ; but  for  the  past  six  months 
I have  had  an  open  book  about  my  fireside,  in  the  person  of  my  wife, 
that  I am  not  able  to  answer.  I have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  I am 
wrong,  and  that  there  must  be  something  holy  and  divine  about  a religion 
that  could  take  a woman  and  change  her  into  the  loving,  patient,  prayer- 
ful, singing  saint  that  she  is  now.”  The  best  books  on  Christianit)'  are 
the  men  and  women  who  live  transformed  lives  in  fellowship  with 
Christ.  — Selected. 


DIARY  OF  RUM  SELLER. 

Monday. — Took  Ragged  Bill’s  last  dime  for  whiske)^ 

Tuesday. — Had  a visit  from  Charlie  Piper,  who  swore  off  three 
months  ago  and  signed  the  pledge ; gave  him  three  drinks  on  tick. 

Wednesday. — That  poor,  nervous  fool,  Dick  Plaster,  who  gets  wild 
and  nervous  after  one  drink,  came  in  to-day ; sold  him  a quart. 

P.  S. — Hear  he  killed  his  wife  in  drunken  rage. 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


Thursday. — ^Johnny  Slogan’s  wife  begged  me  never  to  sell  another 
drop  to  him.  She  cried  till  I promised. 

P.  S. — Sold  him  enough  this  very  day  to  make  him  smash  furniture 
and  beat  his  children.  Ha  !.  ha  ! ha  ! business  is  business. 

Friday. — Phil  Carter  had  no  money.  Took  his  wife’s  wedding  ying 
and  silk  dress  for  an  old  bill ; sent  him  home  gloriously  drunk. 

Saturday. — Young  Sam  Chap  took  his  third  drink  to-day.  I know 
he  likes  it  and  will  make  a speedy  drunkard,  but  I gave  him  the  value  of 
his  money.  His  father  implored  me  to  help  him  break  up  the  practice 
before  it  became  a habit,  but  I told  him  if  I didn’t  sell  it,  some  one 
else  would. 

Sunday. — Pretended  to  keep  the  Sunday  law  to-day,  but  kept  open 
my  back  door.  Sold  beer  and  wine  to  some  boys,  but  they’ll  be  ashamed 
to  tell  of  it.  Bet  my  till  is  fuller  to-night  than  the  church  baskets  are. 

N.  B. — My  business  must  be  respectable,  for  real  gentlemen  patronize 
my  bar,  and  yet  I guess  I won’t  keep  a diary,  for  these  facts  look  very 
queer  on  paper. — Way  of  Faith. 

THE  LICENSE  PLAN. 

Mother. — “Our  boy  is  out  late  at  nights.” 

Father. — “Well,  we  must  tax  the  saloons  $50.” 

Mothei". — “Husband,  I believe  John  drinks.” 

Father. — “We  must  put  up  that  tax  to  $100.” 

Mother. — “My  dear  husband,  our  dear  boy  is  being  ruined,” 

Father. — '“Try  ’em  awhile  at  $200.” 

Mother. — “O  my  God ! my  boy  came  home  drunk.” 

Father. — “Well,  well ! we  must  make  it  $300.” 

Mother. — “Think,  William,  our  boy  is  in  jail.” 

Father. — “I’ll  fix  these  saloons.  Tax  $400.” 

Mother. — “My  poor  child  is  a confirmed  drunkard.” 

Father. — “Up  with  that  tax  and  make  it  $500.” 

Mother. — “Our  once  noble  boy  is  a wreck.” 

Father.^“Now  I will  stop  ’em.  Make  it  $600.” 

Mother. — “We  carry  our  boy  to  a drunkard’s  grave  to-day.” 

Father. — “Well,  I declare.  We  must  regulate  the  traffic;  we  ought 
to  have  made  the  tax  $1,000.” — Selected. 

“Regulate  the  traffic !”  Just  as  well  talk  about  regulating  the  cyclone 
or  the  smallpox  by  putting  a license  on  it.  Putting  a destructive  viper  in 


356 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


bed  with  your  sleeping  child  and  forbidding  it  to  bite  the  child,  would 
be  no  greater  folly  than  trying  to  “regulate”  the  liquor  traffic  with  a high 
license.  What  this  country  needs  is  not  the  licensed  saloon,  but  no  saloon 
at  all.  The  whole  infamous  business  is  an  eating  canker  that  is  destroy- 
ing its  multitudes,  and  if  permitted  to  go  on,  will  finally  destroy  the 
nation.  Down  with  this  broiling  broth  of  hell  fire. — Selected. 

YOUR  BOY  AMONG  THE  POSSIBILITIES. 

The  celebrated  temperance  speaker,  John  B.  Gough,  once  presented 
the  following  touching  picture  : 

“Oh ! I have  sometimes  looked  at  a bright,  beautiful  boy,  and  my 
flesh  has  crept  within  me  at  the  thought  that  there  was  a bare  possibility 
that  he  might  become  a drunkard.  I was  once  playing  with  a beautiful 
boy  in  Norwich,  Conn. ; I was  carrying  him  to  and  fro  on  my  back,  both 
of  us  enjoying  ourselves  exceedingly,  for  I loved  him  and  I think  he 
loved  me.  During  our  play  I said  to'him,  ‘Harry,  will  you  go  down  with 
me  to  the  side  of  the  stone  wall  ?’  ‘Oh,  yes,’  was  his  cheerful  reply.  We 
went  together,  and  saw  a man  lying  listlessly  there,  quite  drunk,  his  face 
upturned  to  the  bright  blue  sky;  the  sunbeams  that  warmed  and 
illumined  us  lay  upon  his  porous,  greasy  face ; the  pure  morning  wind 
kissed  his  parched  lips  and  passed  away  poisoned ; the  very  swine  looked 
more  noble  than  he,  for  they  were  fulfilling  the  purposes  of  their  being. 
As  I looked  upon  the  poor,  degraded  man  and  then  looked  upon  that 
child,  with  his  bright  brow,  his  beautiful  blue  eyes,  his  rosy  cheeks,  his 
pearly  teeth  and  ruby  lips  — the  perfect  picture  of  life,  peace  and 
innocence,  as  I looked  upon  the  man,  then  upon  the  child,  and  felt  his 
little  hand  twitching  convulsively  in  mine,  and  saw  his  lips  grow  white, 
and  eyes  dim  gazing  on  the  poor  drunkard,  then  did  I pray  God  to  give 
me  an  everlasting,  increasing  capacity  to  hate  with  a burning  hatred  any 
instrumentality  that  could  make  such  a thing  of  a being,  once  as  fair  as 
that  little  child.” 

LIQUID  BREAD. 

I remember,  says  one,  of  seeing  over  the  door  of  a public  house 
in  Liverpool,  “Good  ale  is  liquid  bread.”  I went  into  the  house  and 
said,  “Give  me  a quart  of  liquid  bread.” 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


357 


The  landlord  said,  “Ah!  first-rate  sign,  isn’t  it?” 

“Yes,”  said  I,  “if  it’s  true.” 

“Oh,  it’s  true  enough ; my  beer  is  all  right.” 

“Well,  give  me  a bottle  to  take  home.”  He  gave  me  a bottle  of  this 
liquid  bread.  I took  it  to  an  analytical  chemist,  and  said  to  him,  “I  want 
you  to  tell  me  how  much  bread  there  is  in  this  bottle.” 

He  smelled  it  and  said,  “It’s  beer.” 

“No,  no,”  said  I,  “it’s  liquid  bread.” 

“Well,”  he  said',  “if  you  will  come  in  a week’s  time  I’ll  tell  you  all 
about  it.” 

In  a week’s  time  I went  to  learn  all  about  the  liquid  bread.  The 
first  thing  about  it  was  that  ninety-three  per  cent  of  it  was  water. 

“It’s  liquid  anyhow,”  I said;  “we’ll  pass  that.  Now  let  us  go  on 
to  the  bread.” 

“Alcohol,  five  per  cent.” 

“What’s  alcohol?”  I said. 

“There’s  the  dictionary ; you  can  hunt  it  up  for  yourself.”  I hunted 
it  up,  and  found  alcohol  described  as  a “powerful  narcotic  poison.” 
“Well,”  I thought,  “this  is  the  queerest  description  of  bread  I ever  read 
in  my  life.”  Then  he  gave  me  a number  of  small  percentages  of  curious 
things,  which  he  had  carefully  put  down  on  each  corner  of  a piece  of 
white  paper,  and  which  amounted  to  about  a quarter  of  a thimbleful  of 
dirty-looking  powder.  That  was  the  bread  — two  per  cent. 

“And  there  would  not  be  so  much  as  that,”  said  the  chemist,  “if  it 
were  pure  beer.  This  is  bad  beer.” 

“So  the  better  the  beer  the  less  bread  there  is  in  it?” 

“Certainly.  It  is  the  business  of  the  brewer  to  get  bread  out  of  it, 
not  to  put  bread  into  it.” 

This  is  the  simple  scientific  truth  with  regard  to  beer,  and  the  case 
is  stronger  with  regard  to  wine  and  spirits.  There  is  practically  no 
nourishment  in  them. — Selected. 

WANTED:  A BARTENDER. 

) 

The  other  day  I picked  up  a newspaper,  and  glancing  over  the 
advertisements  for  help,  read  as  follows : 

“Wanted — A bartender.  Must  be  a total  abstainer.  Apply,”  etc. 

Is  not  that  a curious  advertisement?  What  should  we  think  of  such 


358 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


an  advertisement  in  any  other  line  of  business  ? How  would  an  adver- 
tisement like  this  look? 

“Wanted — A barber,  who  has  never  had  his  hair  cut.  Apply  at  the 
barber  shop  on  the  corner.” 

Or  this? 

“Wanted — A salesman  in  a shoe  store.  He  must  go  barefoot  while 
on  duty.  Apply  at  Blank’s  Shoe  Store.” 

What  other  business  finds  it  necessary  or  desirable  to  advertise  for 
help  pledged  to  make  no  use  of  the  goods  sold?  Can  it  be  that  the  liquor 
traffic  finds  it  has  wrought  so  great  demoralization  that  it  is  forced  to  ' 
draw  upon  temperance,  or  total  abstinence  fanatics,  in  order  to  continue 
its  business? — Selected. 

A SOLDIER’S  STORY. 

Many  years  ago  Colonel  Lamanowsky,  who  had  been  twenty-three  ;■ 
years  in  the  army  of  Napoleon  Bonaparte,  arose  in  a temperance  meeting, 
tall,  vigorous,  and  with  the  glow  of  health  on  his  face,  and  made  the  fol- 
lowing remarkable  speech : 

“You  see  before  you  a man  seventy  years  old.  I have  fought  200 
battles,  have  fourteen  wounds  on  my  body,  have  lived  thirty  days  on 
horseflesh,  with  the  bark  of  trees  for  my  bread,  snow  and  ice  for  my 
drink,  the  canopy  of  heaven  for  my  covering,  and  only  a few  rags  of 
clothing.  In  the  desert  of  Egypt  I have  marched  for  days  with  the 
burning  sun  upon  my  head,  feet  blistered  with  the  scorching  sand,  and 
with  eyes,  nostrils  and  mouth  filled  with  dust,  and  with  a thirst  so  tor- 
menting that  I have  opened  the  veins  of  my  arms  and  sucked  my  own 
blood. 

“Do  you  ask  how  I survived  all  these  horrors?  I answer  that,  ' 
under  the  providence  of  God,  I owe  my  preservation,  my  health  and 
vigor  to  the  fact  that  I never  drank  a drop  of  spirituous  liquor  in  my 
life,  and,”  continued  he,  “Baron  Larr}^  chief  surgeon  of  the  French  arm}', 
has  stated  as  a fact  that  the  6,000  survivors  who  safely  returned  from 
Egypt  were  all  those  who  abstained  from  ardent  drinks.” — Lever. 

HOW  THE  SALOON  WAS  CLOSED. 

There  were  a number  of  saloons  in  the  place,  but  on  by-streets  and 
quietly  conducted.  This  one,  however,  stood  in  the  public  square,  con- 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


359 


fronting  three  churches.  A handsome  building,  the  interior  lavishly 
adorned,  and  at  the  spacious,  attractive  bar  experts  served  drinks  plain, 
or  spiced  and  drugged  to  taste,  while  music  and  flashily-dressed  women 
added  their  allurements.  A procession  of  tipplers  passed  into  its  doors 
day  and  night,  despite  a vigorous  temperance  sentiment  voiced  in  “union 
temperance  meetings”  in  the  churches  Sunday  evenings,  and  “gospel 
temperance  rallies”  mid-week.  Thus  had  it  been  for  two  years. 

I was  more  impressed  by  the  gravity  of  evil,  because,  as  a resident 
physician,  scenes  of  domestic  discord,  want,  woe,  caused  by  intoxicants 
often  met  my  eye,  accompanied  at  times  by  appalling  atrocities ; besides 
which  the  sad  career  of  the, saloonkeeper  had  shocked  and  grieved  me. 
I knew  him  when  a lad  of  much  promise,  but  indulgence  in  the  wine 
cup  had  led  to  confirmed  drinking ; and  falling  heir  to  some  money,  he 
built  an  elegant  brick  block  and  stocked  it  with  liquors.  He  developed 
into  the  most  odious  manhood,  bloated,  blasphemous,  fierce.  One  would 
scarcely  believe  that  from  the  fine-mannered,  fair-cheeked  boy,  a face  and 
disposition  so  brutish  could  be  evolved.  What  could  be  done  to  save  him 
and  close  up  the  infamous  business  ? All  I knew  how  to  do  was,  as  I 
passed  the  saloon  on  my  professional  rounds,  to  lift  my  heart  in  silent 
petitions  for  divine  interposition. 

A patient  of  mine  was  an  elderly  lady  who  for  five  years  had  lain  on 
her  bed  awaiting  death.  She  wa.s  a remarkable  example  of  the  Christ- 
spirit  and  of  faith  in  prayer.  On  asking  her  to  pray  for  the  saloonkeeper, 
she  answered : “I  am  doing  so,”  and  drew  from  under  her  pillow  a list 
of  her  subjects  of  prayer  — the  “hard  cases”  of  the  town,  his  name  among 
them;  and  she  said,  “Perhaps  the  Lord  is  about  to  use  3^011  for  the 
rescue  of  that  poor  soul.  But  don’t  labor  with  him  till  God’s  Spirit 
specially  moves  you  to.  Wait  for  your  message.  If  you  go  to  him  in 
your  strength,  in  a purely  human  zeal,  you  will  anger  and  harden  him.” 

Weeks  elapsed,  when  one  day  I was  strongly  impressed  to  write  to 
the  saloonist,  but  decided'  to  devote  another  seven  days  to  seeking  grace 
for  the  delicate,  difficult  task.  Then,  on  attempting  it,  the  thoughts  came 
more  swiftly  than  the  pen  could  trace  them.  Sure  am  I that  the  plea 
which  resulted  could  not  have  been  indited  by  my  own  unaided  powers. 
It  was  terrible  in  its  solemnly  graphic  arraignment  of  liquor  selling  and 
liquor  drinking,  yet  every  line  seemed  to  throb  with  more  than  human 
tenderness.  The  letter  was  sent  unsigned.  But  later  the  thought  arose : 
What  if  he  should  recognize  the  handwriting?  And  as  I went  by  his 


360 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


saloou  I expected  him  to  rush  out  and  assault  me,  unless  our  supplications 
on  his  behalf  had  reached  the  ear  on  high.  I thought  it  singular,  how- 
ever, that  whereas  heretofore  I met  the  saloonkeeper  almost  dail}^  now 
for  a long  time  he  kept  out  of  my  sight.  But  one  afternoon  at  twilight 
the  office  door-bell  rang,  and  on  answering  it,  the  burly  form  of  the 
liquor  seller  stood  before  me.  Had  he  discovered  the  authorship  of  that 
letter,  and  come  with  ruffianly  intent? 

He  entered,  took  a proffered  chair,  was  silent  a moment,  and  then 
said : 

“Doctor,  someone  thought  enough  of  me  to  write  me  a letter.  And 
I have  called  to  say  that  I have  resolved  never  to  drink  or  sell  another 
drop  of  liquor  as  long  as  I live.” 

I sprang  to  my  feet  in  a mingled  tumult  of  joy  and  anxiety,  saying; 

“My  dear  friend,  you  cannot  do  that.  The  drink  craze  has  its  hold 
upon  you  — it  is  not  possible  to  resolve  it  away.  It  will  be  with  you  as 
with  hundreds  of  others^ — temporary  reform,  then  fail,  to  sink  lower  than 
ever.  God  can  save  you ; you  can’t  save  yourself.  If  you  will  truly  seek 
him  in  prayer  he  will  fortify  your  weak  will  and  hold  you  up.  There  is 
no  hope  for  you  otherwise.” 

He  dropped  his  eyes  and  responded : 

“I  do  pray;  I am  praying;  I feel  that  God  hears  me,  and  I shall 
conquer.” 

His  confidence  was  not  disappointed.  The  saloon  was  closed,  and 
now  for  many  years  he  has  been  a steadfast  and  honored  temperance 
worker,  and  a devout  church  member. — The  Open  Door. 

RESCUED  MEN. 

“Into  the  Jerry  McCauley  Mission,  in  New  York  City,  he  came;  and 
even  in  that  place  his  appearance  attracted  attention. 

“His  eyes  were  swollen  almost  shut.  His  besotted  face  had  lost 
nearly  all  semblance  of  humanity.  His  shoes  had  flapping  soles,  and 
were  tied  on  with  bits  of  twine.  He  Avore  no  stockings.  One  leg  of 
his  trousers  had  a rip  almost  to  the  knee.  His  only  remaining  garment 
was  a clerical  coat.  This  had  never  been  of  first-class  material,  and  had 
grown  shiny  and  ragged;  and  upon  its  present  owner  it  served  to 
accentuate  the  caricature  of  his  appearance,  and  to  show  where  men  go 
for  their  last  begging. 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


361 


“He  stepped  into  the  mission  by  accident  or  Providence.  He  was  on 
his  way  to  the  river  to  commit  suicide;  for  he  had  been  collared  and 
thrust  forth  from  the  miserable  saloon  where  of  late  he  had  resorted, 
the  bartender  cursing  as  he  kicked'  him,  and  saying  that  he  had  become  ‘a 
disgrace  to  the  place.’ 

“ A disgrace  to  the  place ! And  such  a place ! If  it  had  come  to 
that,  there  was  but  one  thing  left,  he  said ; and  he  started  for  the  river. 
But  he  heard  the  singing,  entered  the  mission,  and  without  waiting  to  be 
urged,  came  forward  at  the  first  invitation;  for  he  was  literally  a drown- 
ing man,  and  he  clutched  at  a straw. 

‘But  that  man  was  even  then  at  the  head  of  a business  in  New 
York  City;  and  his  name,  signed  by  another  as  trustee,  had  value  at 
the  bank.  His  had  been  an  honorable  career.  But  there  had  been  a 
few  short  years  of  riotous  living,  and  they  had  broken  up  his  home, 
wrecked  his  manhood,  and  had  so  nearly  ruined  his  business  that  it 
had  been  saved  only  by  an  arrangement  that  gave  its  control  to  others, 
and  left  him  a hopeless  wanderer  in  the  city  of  his  birth. 

“It  is  now  two  years  since  that  man  paused  on  his  way  to  the 
river.  Rapid  as  had  been  the  disintegration  of  his  character,  the 
influence  of  faith  has  been  still  more  swift. 

“Clothed,  and  in  his  right  mind,  he  now  visits  the  mission  wheri» 
he  found  new  life.  He  plays  the  organ  in  the  church  which  he  ha^ 
joined.  He  sits  in  his  own  office,  controls  his  own  business,  and  signs 
hig  own  checks.  And  by  no  means  least  of  the  changes,  he  is  reconciled 
to  his  wife  and  children,  and  lives  in  his  own  home. 

“It  is  easy  to  say  of  such  a case,  ‘Well,  he  saw  his  mistake  and 
pulled  up  in  time.  He  called  his  will  into  play,  and  reformed.’  The 
explanation  does  not  wholly  satisfy,  nor  does  any  other  explanation 
which  leaves  out  of  account  the  help  of  God,  always  waiting  one  who 
desires  and  tries  to  do  better. 

“Examples  such  as  this,  continually  occurring,  are  a sufficient 
answer  to  those  who  regard  the  gospel  as  merely  a fact  of  ancient 
history.  Now,  as  ever,  it  is  the  power  of  God  unto  salvation.” — Youths’ 
Companion. 

WHAT  RUINS  GIRLS. 

Mary  E.  Keegan,  chief  matron  of  the  Chicago  Police  Department, 
says : 


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STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


“Of  all  the  ten  or  twelve  thousand  unfortunate  girls  and  wrecked 
women  arrested  every  year  in  Chicago,  among  those  who  tell  their  woes 
to  me,  ninety-nine  out  of  every  hundred  attribute  their  downfall  to  the 
first  glass  of  wine  or  champagne,  taken  generally  with  a male  com- 
panion, always  for  good  fellowship’s  sake. 

“That  first  glass  is  the  beginning  of  the  end — and  here  you  see 
what  the  end  is. 

“When  a woman  once  begins  to  drink,  even  in  a social  way,  her 
future  is  threatened  with  either  moral  weakness  or  utter  ruin.  So  many 
women  who  came  here  tell  me  that  the  first  sparkling  glass  of  champagne 
was  the  beginning  of  all  their  misfortune.” 

Reader,  think  of  the  number,  “ten  or  twelve  thousand”  and  only  one 
large  city,  and  think  that  “ninety-nine  out  of  every  hundred  attribute 
their  downfall  to  the  first  glass  of  wine.”  And  yet  wine  drinking  is  very 
common  among  all  grades  of  society,  especially  among  what  ma}'  be 
termed  the  “upper  crust.”  What  danger,  and  what  an  awful  har^^est! 
This  nefarious  American  custom  ought  to  be  tabooed  everywhere.  The 
church  of  the  living  God  should  cry  out  against  it.  Down  with  the 
treating  system!  Down  with  wine  drinking!  Dov/n  v/ith  the  American 
drunkery ! 

THE  RUMSELLER’S  EQUIVALENT. 

The  honest  law  of  traffic,  known  and  unquestioned  by  all  men, 
demands  that  in  all  the  exchanges  of  trade  mutual  benefits  shall  be 
conferred.  The  benefits  that  come  to  the  rumseller  from  his  devilish 
traffic  show  themselves  in  a splendid  home  adorned  with  all  that  money 
can  procure.  His  wife  and  children  are  clothed  in  elegant  attire  and 
move  in  an  atmosphere  laden  with  luxury  and  pride.  But  look,  my 
friends ! What  are  the  benefits  that  come  to  the  man  who  is  the  other 
party  to  the  traffic  that  passes  over  the  rumseller’s  bar?  Does  that  man 
get  health  and  happiness,  social  and  moral  improvement  for  the  dimes 
he  pours  into  the  rmuseller’s  till?  Does  the  traffic  carry  fertility  to  his 
farm,  prosperity  to  his  business  or  comfort  to  his  family?  Can  he 
boast  that  out  of  his  patronage  of  the  spirit-vender  he  has  a better 
credit,  a larger  custom,  a longer  bank  account? 

Ask  the  drunkard,  and  he  will  answer  in  groans,  that  his  returns 
have  come  in  commercial  ruin,  social  infamy  and  moral  degradation. 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


363 


Look  to  his  habitation,  and  the  answer  will  come  in  fallen  chimneys  and 
rag-stufifed  windows.  Ask  his  children,  and  their  answer  comes  in  a moan 
from  tattered  garments  and  haggard  faces.  Ask  the  wife,  with  her  calloused 
hands  and  care-worn  visage,  what  has  the  rumseller  done  for  her?  He  has 
taken  her  last  bed  while  the  saloon-keeper’s  wife  rests  at  night  upon  a 
couch  of  down ; he  has-  taken  her  last  gown,  while  the  finest  fabrics  of  the 
world’s  loom  are  ready  for  the  rumseller’s  wife ; he  has  taken  her  last 
loaf,  while  the  rumseller’s  table  groans  with  the  choicest  products  of 
forest,  field  and  stream ; and,  as  if  this  were  not  enough,  at  last  he  robs 
her  of  the  heart  of  her  husband,  clouds  in  the  blackness  or  darkness  the 
sky  that  was  once  so  sunny,  and  makes  a hell  of  that  home  that  was  once 
a paradise  to  her. 

Go  to  her  wretched  hovel  at  midnight,  and  behold  her  through  the 
crevices  of  the  wall  or  the  broken  panes  of  the  window  through  which  the 
blasts  of  December  howl  the  requiem  of  all  her  hopes.  Why  does  she 
sit  there  shivering  over  the  last  half-consumed  stick  of  fuel  ? She  weeps 
and  sighs,  tears  that  would  have  been  smiles  and  sighs  that  would  have 
been  songs  had  not  the  accursed  traffic  invaded  her  home.  Why  does 
she  sit  there  in  that  joyless  solitude?  Only  to  wait  for  the  drunkard’s 
return.  The  devoted  wife  cannot  forget  the  past,  though  he  who  once 
had  the  heart  and  soul  of  a man,  now  reels  into  her  cabin  a savage,  a 
tiger,  a putrid  mass  of  disease,  a loathsome  living  death. 

Who  has  wrought  this  transformation?  Who  has  effaced  God’s 
image,  and  turned  the  husband  into  a fury,  the  father  into  a fiend?  This 
is  the  mad  catalogue  of  woes  the  rumseller  has  given  for  the  drunkard’s 
money.  Though  coined  into  tears  and  anguish  and  loneliness  and 
desolation  and  despair  in  the  life  of  the  drunkard’s  wife,  the  drunkard’s 
money  flashes  in  the  rumseller’s  diamonds,  floats  in  perfumed  clouds 
from  the  rumseller’s  cigar,  glows  in  costly  pictures  upon  the  rumseller’s 
walls,  and  glints  and  gleams  in  all  the  appointments  of  the  rumseller’s 
home. 

Oh,  moderate  drinker,  take  th'is  picture  of  plain,  unvarnished  fact 
home  to  your  heart  this  night.  If  your  home  is'  still  your  own,  if  your 
children  still  have  the  laugh  and  the  prattle  that  give  you  joy,  if  you  still 
can  surround  her  whom  you  love  with  those  attentions  that  show  yon 
love  her,  oh,  I beg  you  to  remember  what  a transformation  can  be 
wrought  in  your  life  and  home  if  you  continue  to  be  a party  in  th-- 


364 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


traffic  that  goes  on  over  the  rumseller’s  bar. — ^Joseph  Cross  in  Union, 
Signal. 

ADVERTISEMENT  OF  RUM-VOTING  CHURCHES. 

To  the  Public  and  World  at  Large,  Greeting: 

Dear  Friends:  Please  remember,  we,  as  a church  and  nation,  are 
still  legislating  laws  to  sustain  and  perpetuate  the  liquor  traffic  in  this 
country ; though  we  know  it  is  the  most  treacherous,  damning  legislation 
among  men.  As  we  are  receiving  large  revenues  from  our  distilleries 
and  saloon  men,  they  must  receive  large  dividends  to  meet  our  demand. 

We  are  very  grateful  for  past  public  courtesies  and  patronage.  If 
you  will  continue  to  lavish  your  hard  earnings  on  us,  we  will  continue 
to  make  drunkards,  beggars  and  vagabonds  out  of  sober,  industrious 
people.  Our  liquor  breaks  up  the  best  of  families,  creates  riot,  blood- 
shed and  thousands  of  murders.  We  know  we  had  just  as  well  license 
highwaymen  to  murder  a hundred  thousand  of  our  best  citizens  a year, 
as  to  license  the  saloons  to  kill  the  same  number.  In  fact,  we  feel  that 
the  saloon  slow-murder  is  the  more  wicked  and  heinous  of  the  two ; as 
we  first  convert  fathers,  mothers,  children  and  neighbors  into  fiends; 
then  we  fill  the  mad-houses  with  blasted  hopes  and  ruined  lives ; after 
which  they  fall  into  a drunkard’s  grave  and  a drunkard’s  hell.  Thus 
our  saloons,  like  hungry  bloodhounds,  bay  in  the  path  of  church  and 
nation,  till  they  suck  from  our  national  pocket  over  a billion  dollars  a 
year,  and  would,  if  it  were  possible,  destroy  every  human  being  from 
the  face  of  the  earth.  Still,  at  election,  with  bloody  fingers,  we  drop  the 
Satanic  ballot  which  dooms  millions  to  eternal  woe ; )-et  we  accommodate 
the  public  at  such  a cost. 

We  know  the  Bible  says,  “Thou  shalt  not  kill,”  “Woe  unto  him 
that  giveth  his  neighbor  drink,”  and  not  to  “put  a stumbling-block  in  his 
brother’s  way.”  We  also  read,  “No  drunkard  shall  inherit  the  kingdom 
of  God”  — and  we  know  a rum-voter,  a drunkard-maker,  will  not  share 
any  better  fate  — ; but  we  want  the  revenue,  and  our  distilleries  want 
the  blood-money;  and  we’ve  made  up  our  mind  that  iniquity  pays  good 
wages ; so  we  are  all  in  partnership  to  carry  on  this  business  at  the 
expense  of  the  purity  and  eternal  happiness  of  the  race.  For  proof 
of  our  ability  to  do  this  (as  a church  and  nation),  we  refer  you  to  the 
pawnshop,  police  station,  lunatic  asylum,  state’s  prison,  the  gallows, 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


S65 


and  hell  at  last,  whither  our  customers  are  going.  And  when  the  doings 
of  time  are  written  up,  the  records  of  the  Almighty  will  prove  these  facts ; 
still,  we  expect  to  keep  on  legislating  for  this  wholesole  human  slaughter 
till  the  decent  worldlings  shall  remove  the  “National  Curse”  from 
among  us. 

Don’t  fail  to  come  and  see  us ; as  you  and  your  boys  and  girls 
might  as  well  share  this  fate  and  fatal  plunge  with  the  rest  of  us. 

Yours  for  perdition. 

Signed  by  order  of  The  Clerical  Council,  Church  of  the  Apostasy. 

Bishop  Rum  Doomed. 

Elder  Revenue  Blood. 

Recorder  Death  Angel. 

The  Devil,  Business  Manager  and  President. — Tract. 

THE  LIGHT  WINE  FALLACY.  1 

After  a period  of  ten  years  spent  among  vineyards  and  wine-presses, 
we  have  no  hesitation  in  declaring  that  as  a demoralizing  and  besotting 
agent,  colonial  wine  is  leagues  ahead  of  either  beer  or  spirits.  Stories, 
heart-rending  and  sad,  can  be  told  of  homes  blighted  through  the 
intemperate  habits  of  father  or  son,  caused  by  the  consumption  of  beer 
or  spirits,  but  stories  infinitely  sadder  can  be  told  of  whole  families 
desolated  and  destroyed  through  the  making  and  consuming  of  colonial 
wine.  We  produce  but  one  instance  to  illustrate  and  sustain  our  con- 
tention, and  give  it  simply  as  it  came  before  us. 

J.  C.  was  a man  on  the  shady  side  of  the  middle  life  when  first  we 
met,  and  were  introduced  to  him  by  a brother  minister  as  one  of  the 
supporters  of  his  church.  It  was.  with  a feeling  of  pride  Mr.  C.  intro- 
duced us  to  his  wife  and  family  of  eight  stalwart  sons  and  buxom 
daughters,  and  then  took  us  through  his  broad  acres  of  flourishing  vines, 
and  last,  but  not  least,  into  his  spacious,  airy  and  up-to-date  winery, 
with  its  huge  tuns,  vats  and  presses.  That  we  declined  to  sample  his 
wines,  we  are  afraid  was  regarded  as  slightly  unsociable. 

“It  is  quite  harmless,  you  know,”  said  Mr.  C.,  “quite  harmless.’’ 

“Perhaps  so ; but  on  principle  and  for  the  sake  of  others,  we  strictly 
abstain.”  After  an  hour  spent  in  listening  to  a description  of  the  proper- 
ties of  different  kinds  of  grapes  and  the  various  processes  in  wine- 
making, we  bid  our  friend  and  his  family  adieu,  promising  if  at  an}j 
future  time  we  should  be  in  the  district,  we  would  give  them  a call. 


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Several  years  have  now  passed  since  the  above  transpired.  A few 
weeks  ago  we  found  ourselves  within  a mile  or  two  of  the  home  of  our 
old  vigneron  host.  Whilst  sitting  at  the  table,  a member  of  the  family 
with  whom  we  were  staying,  entered  the  room  and  announced  that 
“Dr.  H.  had  given  up  all  hopes  of  Mary  C.,  and  she  would  not  last  the 
night  through.” 

“Mary  C.,”  we  observed ; “that  reminds  us,  how  is  our  old  friend 
Mr.  C.,  of  T vineyard?” 

“Don’t  ask  me,”  our  friend  at  the  head  of  the  table  replied ; “my 
heart  would  bleed  to  tell  you  all.  This  Mary  of  whom  we  have  just 
heard  is  the  last  of  that  ’fine  family  of  eight  you  saw  only  a few  years 
ago,  and  with  perhaps  but  one  exception,  all  have  come  to  their  graves 
victims  to  wine  drinking.” 

We  said  nothing.  Our  friend  went  on: 

“Within  the  last  six  years  I have  buried  seven  of  those  sons  and 
daughters.  One,  frenzied  with  wine,  laid  hands  on  his  own  life,  and 
one  by  one,  besotted  and  diseased,  they  have  dropped  into  the  grave  — a 
grave  so  hopeless  and  so  dark ; and  novO-  to  think  the  only  child  left  to 
that  home  is  doomed  to  pass  away  ere  the  morning  breaks,  the  last 
victim  sacrificed  to  this  Moloch  of  the  wine-press.  Oh,  the  horror  of  it !” 

“What  of  the  poor  heart-broken  parents?”  we  ventured  to  ask. 

“There  is  only  one  of  them  left  — the  father,  and  he,  poor  fellow, 
must  follow  soon,  and  he  is  an  awful  wreck,  a slave  to  his  own  manu- 
facture.” 

“But  the  mother?” 

“Poor  woman,  she  died  three  years  ago.” 

“Was  it  the  wine  in  her  case?” 

“It  was,  and  oh,  so  sad ! She  became  so  helpless  as  not  to  be  able 
to  help  herself  to  food,  and -those  around  her  were  so  helplessly  drunk 
as  not  to  be  able  to  walk,  and  thus  she  died.” 

“But  surely  these  constantly  recurring  deaths  would  have  some 
effect  upon  the  surviving  member  of  the  family?” 

“Not  the  slightest,  and  it  just  shows  the  debasing,  dehumanizing 
influence  of  the  wine  on  its  votaries.  The  surviving  members  of  the 
family  have  gone  to  the  grave  without  the  slightest  indication  of  feeling. 
The  awful  hardness  induced  by  wine  drinking  no  one  would  credit,  if  he 
did  not  see  it.  There  is  a patch  of  ground  as  large  as  this  room  in 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


367 


yonder  cemetery,  in  which  are  buried  eight  of  the  family  — seven  sons 
and  daughters,  and  the  mother.  I will  show  you  it  to-morrow.” 

“Thank  you,  we  would  rather  be  excused;  such  scenes  have  np  fas 
cination  for  us,”  we  remarked,  and  with  that  the  conversation  closed. 

We  might,  perhaps,  travel  the  country  through  and  not  find  another 
case  that  runs  on  all  fours  with  this  — and  we  have  not  told  one-half  — 
but  cases  could  be  given  by  the  score  where  the  effects  are  the  same. 
The  awful  insidiousness  of  the  wine-habit  is  like  that  of  the  opium  drug, 
and  has  yet  to  be  realized  and  brought  home  to  the  conscience  and 
intelligence  of  the  community.  There  is  no  form  of  strong  drink  that 
so  surely  and  so  effectually  demoralizes ; it  dethrones  reason,  it  usurps 
the  judgment,  it  paralyzes  the  will,  it  destroys  the  affections,  it  extir- 
pates the  soul,  it  kills  the  human,  it  crushes  the  divine,  it  creates  the 
devil.  Yet  this  is  the  industry  which  judiciary  functionaries  eulogize 
from  the  bench,  government  treasurers  obtrusively  foster  with  the 
people’s  money,  and  leading  politicians  propose  as  a panacea  for  the 
low  morals  of  the  community.  The  solemn  fooling  of  public  men  on 
this  question  is  simply  deplorable. — Alliance  News. 

LOVED  AND  LOST. 

I was,  the  other  day,  in  a beautiful  residence.  There  was  a large 
gathering  of  friends,  for  this  family  I knew  had  been  prominent  for  their 
hospitality.  I knew  that  total  abstinence  had  not  been  smiled  upon 
there,  but  I was  astonished  when  I sat  down  at  the  table  to  notice  there 
were  no  wine  glasses.  I almost  took  it  as  a compliment  to  myseff  in  my 
foolishness ; but  whispering  to  the  lady,  I said : 

“I  see  no  wine  glasses  here ; are  you  teetotalers  for  the  day  because 
I am  here?” 

And  I saw  in  a moment  the  change  in  her  face.  She  said : 

“I  have  something  to  tell  you  about  that.” 

As  soon  as  dinner  was  over  she  said  to  me,”  You  asked  me  about  the 
wine  glasses?” 

I said,  “Yes.  I noticed  their  absence.” 

“I  will  tell  you  the  reason:  You  remember  my  Willie?” 

“Oh,  yes,  I remember  Willie  well.” 

“Was  he  not  a bonny  boy?”  she  asked,  with  tears  in  her  eyes. 

“Yes,”  I said,  “one  of  the  finest  lads  I ever  knew.” 


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“Yes,”  she  said,  “and  he  was  my  pride.  You  know  he  used  wine 
freely.  You  know  the  leading  ministers  in  the  connection  had  always 
made  this  house  their  home,  and  they  have  always  been  welcome.  I used 
to  allow  the  children  to  stay  up  when  the  ministers  w^ere  here,  to  have 
the  benefit  of  their  conversation.  The  children  had  half  a glass  of  wine, 
ministers  a full  glass,  and  so  had  their  father.  By  and  by  I noticed  what 
aroused  my  suspicion.  William  used  to  come  home  smelling  of  wine, 
and  I didn’t  like  it.  I spoke  to  him,  and  he  said  there  was  no  danger ; 
he  had  only  been  meeting  a few  friends. 

“By  and  by  I noticed  he  was  husky,  and  at  last  he  came  home  in  a 
state  that  made  my  heart  ache.  One  night  he  came  home  quite  drunk. 

I could  not  conceal  it  from  his  father.  His  father  is  a hot-tempered  man. 
He  met  him  in  the  lobby  and  bitter  words  passed.  His  father  ordered* 
him  out  of  the  house,  and  he  went,  and  for  months  we  never  knew  what 
became  of  him.  Father  w'ould  not  let  us  mention  his  name,  and  I and 
his  sisters  could  do  nothing  but  pray. 

“We  did  not  know  whether  he  was  dead  or  alive;  and  one  night, 
when  the  servants  had  gone  to  bed,  and  we  were  sitting  together,  I 
suddenly  heard  a noise,  and  I thought  it  was  Willie’s  voice.  I dared 
not  speak.  My  husband  looked  around  and  said ; 

“ ‘Did  you  hear  anything?  I thought  I heard  a voice.  I believe,’ 
he  said,  ‘it  is  Willie.  Just  go  to  the  door  and  see.’  I went  to  the  door, 
and  there  he  stood,  more  like  a ghost  than  a young  man.  He  looked 
at  me,  and  I said,  ‘Willie.’ 

“ ‘Mother,’  he  said,  ‘will  you  let  me  in?’ 

“ ‘Ay,  my  lad,  you  ought  never  to  have  gone  away.  Come  in,’  and 
I had  to  lend  him  my  arm. 

“ ‘Don’t  take  me  into  the  drawing  room  ; take  me  into  the  kitchen. 

I feel,  mother,  as  if  I were  dying?’ 

“ ‘No,  my  lad,  you  shall  not  die,’  I said. 

“ ‘Will  you  make  me  a basin  of  barley  broth  like  that  you  used  to 
make  me?’ 

“‘I  will  make  you  anything  you  like,  my  boy;  but  you  must  come 
upstairs  and  lie  down.’ 

“ ‘Oh,  mother!  I can’t  take  it.  I feel  as  if  I was  fainting.’ 

“I  called  his  father,  and  he  came,  but  didn’t  say  an  angry  word  to 
him.  He  could  not  when  he  saw  the  state  he  was  in.  We  carried  him 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


36d 


upstairs,  and  laid  him  upon  the  bed,  and  after  a moment’s  pause  he  said : 

“ ‘Father,  the  drink  haS'  killed  me.’ 

“ ‘No,  my  boy,’  said  his  father,  ‘we  shall  bring  you  around  yet.’ 

“‘Never  father  — God  be  merciful  to  me  a sinner!’  — and  his  head 
fell  back,  and  there  was  an  end  of  our  boy  in  this  life. 

“His  father  stood  and  looked  at  Willie  as  he  lay  there,  and  said  to 
me,  ‘Mother,  the  drink  has  killed  our  Willie,  and  there  shall  never  be 
another  drop  of  drink  in  this  house  while  I am  alive.’  ” — Rev.  Charles 
Garrett  in  Watchman. 

OUR  CIVILIZATION  FOR  SAVAGES. 

Four  years  ago  a Christian  chief  of  Bechuanaland  went  to  London 
on  an  extraordinary  mission.  He  went  there  to  tell  that  he  had  made 
a prohibitive  law  for  his  tempted  subjects,  who  are  negroes,  and  he  said 
that  the  principle  difficulty  he  had  with  it  was  the  smuggling  in  of 
liquor  by  British  subjects,  and  he  implored  her  Majesty  to  second  his 
efforts  to  make  prohibition  successful.  Think  of  it  — a converted  African 
savage  on  his  knees  before  a Christian  queen,  imploring  her  not  to  poison 
his  own  nation! — Vanguard. 

THE  MOST  DANGEROUS  TEMPTERS. 

A man  who  has  mingled  much  with  the  business  and  social  world 
was  discussing  the  drink  habit,  in  an  interview  with  a representative 
of  the  San  Antonio  Express  : 

“It  is  all  nonsense,”  he  said,  “for  young  men  to  say  that  they  cannot 
resist  the  temptations  of  the  saloon.  As  far  as  my  experience  goes,  the 
saloonkeepers  of  San  Antonio  and  the  mew  of  San  Antonio  seldom  urge 
a young  man  to  drink.  They  say,  ‘No,  I never  drink,’  or  ‘I  would  like  to 
be  excused  this  time,’  that  is  the  end  of  it.  It  is  all  a mistake  about  a 
young  man  being  forced  to  drink  if  he  mingles  much  with  the  men  of  the 
town.  He  can  refuse  very  easily  if  he  wants  to  ; and  when  it  is  once 
known  that  a man  never  drinks,  he  is  seldom  asked  to  do  it.  But  the 
real  hard  people  to  get  away  from  are  the  women.  You  can  go  into  a 
reception  where  the  punch  is  strong  enough  to  knock  you  down,  and  the 
first  woman  you  meet  will  say,  ‘Do  come  and  have  some  puncK.’ 

“ ‘No,  thank  you,  not  now.’ 

“ ‘Oh,  yes ; just  one  glass  with  me.’ 


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f 


“If  by  a certain  amount  of  rudeness  you  are  able  to  escape  this 
woman,  the  next  one  you  meet  will  say:  ‘This  is  the  most  delicious 
punch.  Let  me  help  you.’ 

“‘What!  Don’t  drink  punch?  What  kind  of  a man  are  you?  I 
assure  you,  this  is  quite  harmless.’ 

“A  matronly  woman  comes  along  and  says : ‘You  must  taste  this 
punch ; it  is  made  from  my  special  recipe,  and  I am  proud  of  it.’ 

“‘Don’t  drink?  Well,  just  this  time  to  please  me.  I’ve  raised  my 
children  on  this  punch.’ 

“And  so  on  through  the  evening.  A young  man  who  is  strong 
enough  to  resist  the  temptations  of  society  has  nothing  to  fear  from  the 
saloons.” 

This  is  the  testimony  of  not  one  young  man,  but  several,  and  it  is 
no  uncommon  thing  to  hear  men  and  boys  say : “Why  will  women  urge 
a fellow  to  drink  the  way  they  do?” 

There  is  something  peculiar  about  wine  or  liquors  of  any  kind  — 
you  are  always  urged  to  take  it.  You  can  refuse  bread  and  butter,  meat 
and  potatoes,  and  even  coffee,  without  a word  of  remonstrance,  but  never 
wine. — New  York  Weekly  Witness. 

COULD  NOT  BE  BOUGHT. 

John  Bailey  was  hurrying  home  from  school  when  Mr.  Giles  hailed 
him.  Mr.  Giles  w'as  the  proprietor  of  a sort  of  a store  and  a saloon 
combined.  He  kept  a stock  of  groceries,  flour,  and  a few  other  articles, 
and  besides,  he  kept  beer  on  draught,  and  this  last  was,  of  course,  the 
most  profitable  part  of  his  business. 

John  stopped  and  turned  back  to  Mr.  Giles’  call,  and  stood  waiting. 

“How  would  you  like  a chance  to  earn  some  money  nights  and 
mornings  ?” 

“First  rate.” 

“I  thought  so.  Well,  I need  a boy  to  help  in  the  store,  especially 
evenings,  and  I thought  I’d  give  you  the  chance.  You  see,  there  are  a 
good  many  coming  in  after  working  hours  for  their  beer,  and  ser\’ing 
them  and  weighing  up  the  groceries  is  ’most  too  much  for  one  to  do; 
so  I thought  if  w'e  could  agree  on  a price.  I’d  like  5'ou  to  come  in  and 
help.  You  are  a likely  sort  of  a boy,  I guess.” 

John’s  thoughts  had  been  going  speedily  forward,  and  taken  in  a 


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371 


new  coat  for  himself,  a dress  for  mother,  and  no  end  of  books  and  papers, 
to  be  bought  with  money  he  should  earn ; but  his  hopes  sank  as  rapidly 
as  they  had  risen.  He  had  not  thought  of  the  beer. 

“I  don’t  think  that  I could  come,”  he  said. 

“Why  not?”  asked  Mr.  Giles,  in  surprise.  “I  thought  you  would 
jump  at  the  chance.” 

“So  I did,  at  first ; but,  come  to  think  of  it,  I couldn’t.” 

“But  why?”  and  as  Mr.  Giles  insisted  upon  an  answer,  John  said: 
“I  can’t  help  you  because  I don’t  want  to  betray  the  cause  which  I am 
pledged  to  fight  for.” 

“Cause?  Pledged  to  fight  for?  What  do  you  mean?” 

“I  mean  the  temperance  cause.  I can’t  sell  beer,  Mr.  Giles.” 

“Oh!  that  is  it.  Well,  John,  I won’t  ask  you  to  sell  beer;  you  may 
confine  yourself  to  the  grocery  department.” 

“I  don’t  think  that  would  do,  either,”  replied  John.  “It  would  look 
bad,  any  way,  and  hurt  the  cause.  Guess  I can’t  come  at  all.” 

But  Mr.  Giles  persisted.  “I  will  pay  you  well,”  he  said ; and  finally, 
as  John  became  more  decided  in  his  refusal,  to  entertain  his  proposal, 
he  offered  him  large  wages,  and  John,  growing  desperate,  said : “Mr. 
Giles,  I am  not  worth  much,  but  I am  not  for  sale,  what  there  is  of  me ;” 
and  with  that  he  said  good-afternoon,  and  hurried  home  to  tell  his 
mother  the  story  of  his  interview  and  get  her  approval,  for  he  was  sure 
she  would  approve. 

When  he  had  told  her,  she  said : “John,  you  make  me  think  of 
General  Reed.” 

“Who  was  General  Reed?”  asked  John,  who  was  not  very  well  up 
in  his  history. 

“He  was  an  officer  in  the  American  army  during  the  Revolutionary 
War.  It  was  during  the  winter  of  1777-78,  the  very  gloomiest  period  of 
the  war.  The  soldiers  were  suffering  greatly  from  privations,  and 
many  were  getting  discouraged.  The  English  people  were  proposing 
measures  of  settlement  of  the  difficulties ; but  the  brave  general  who  was 
at  the  head  of  the  army  had  faith  in  the  success  of  the  cause,  and  would 
listen  to  no  terms  of  peace  which  did  not  include  an  acknowledgment 
of  the  independence  of  the  colonies.  Then  bribery  was  tried,  and  General 
Reed  was  offered  a large  sum  of  money  if  he  would  use  his  influence 
to  bring  about  an  adjustment  of  matters  between  the  two  countries. 
His  reply  was : ‘I  am  not  worth  purchasing ; but  such  as  I am,  the 


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King  of  England  has  not  money  enough  to  buy  me.’  ” And  Mrs.  Bailey 
smiled  encouragingly  upon  her  earnest-faced  boy,  whose  dark  eyes 
kindled  with  true  patriotic  fervor  as  she  added:  “I  hope  you  will  always 
be  loyal  to  the  cause,  and  that  there  will  never  be  money  enough  in  all 
the  world  to  buy  you.  Your  name  may  not  go  into  history  alongside  j 

the  patriot  of  1777,  but  truth  and  loyalty  are  worth  more  than  a name  j 

in  history.” — Selected  by  Christian  Witness.  { 

j 

A SURGEON’S  TEMPERANCE. 

Dr.  Lorenz  is  pre-eminent  among  the  surgeons  of  Europe.  It  is  of 
interest,  therefore,  to  note  that  on  the  occasion  of  his  second  visit  to 
America  during  the  past  year,  where  his  remarkable  operations  attracted 
much  attention,  he  emphatically  declared  the  danger  of  alcoholic  drinks. 

A banquet  was  given  in  his  honor  in  New  York  City,  and  wine  was  I 

served.  The  eminent  guest  declined  it.  This  caused  him  to  be  asked  ! 

if  he  were  a total  abstainer  from  the  use  of  wines  and  other  liquors. 

His  answer  was  as  follows  : I 

“1  cannot  say  that  I am  a temperance  agitator,  but  I am  a surgeon. 

My  success  depends  upon  my  brain  being  clear,  my  muscles  firm,  and 
my  nerves  steady.  No  one  can  take  alcoholic  liquors  without  blunting 
these  physical  powers,  which  I must  keep  always  on  edge.  As  a sur- 
geon, I must  not  drink.” — Selected  by  Gospel  Herald. 

PREACHING  IN  PRISON. 

The  work  of  the  Prohibition  sheriff  of  Cumberland  County,  Maine, 
does  not  end  with  bringing  offenders  to  justice,  for  no  effort  is  spared 
on  his  part  to  induce  them  to  live  better  lives. 

For  nearly  thirty  years  he  and  Mrs.  Pearson,  who  died  a short  time 
ago,  have  been  engaged  in  rescue  work  in  this  city.  They  were  always 
frequent  visitors  to  the  jail,  and  did  a great  deal  of  religious'  and  charit- 
able work  among  the  prisoners.  After  IMrs.  Pearson’s  death  a program  of 
the  memorial  services  with  her  picture  was  given  to  the  prisoners.  They 
preserved  them  very  carefully  and  many  placed  them  on  the  walls  of  ! 
their  cells.  A few  days  after,  the  turnkey  brought  to  Miss  Evangeline,  , 
the  sheriff’s  daughter  and  only  child,  a little  verse  written  by  one  of  the  ' 
prisoners.  It  was  faulty  in  meter  and  crude  in  expression,  but  it  voiced  I 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


373 


the  thought  of  all  of  the  prisoners  who  had  known  Mrs.  Pearson  in 
its  last  line,  “True  love  for  Mrs.  Pearson  can  never  die.” 

Whenever  the  other  duties  of  his  office  will  permit,  Sheriff  Pearson 
visits  the  prisoners  in  their  cells  and  talks  and  prays  with  them.  Every 
Sunday  he  devotes  several  hours  to  this  work,  and  no  one  leaves  the 
jail  without  the  best  help  and  instruction  that  he  and  Miss  Pearson 
can  give  them.  He  especially  urges  all  who  are  in  for  drunkenness 
to  take  the  pledge. 

The  regular  Sunday  services  in  the  chapel  are  conducted  by  the 
various  religious  societies  of  the  city.  A short  time  ago  the  preacher 
who  was  to  conduct  the  services  failed  tO'  appear,  and  so  the  sheriff 
took  his  place  and  preached  to  the  prisoners,  while  Miss  Pearson  con- 
ducted the  musical  part  of  the  services. 

Miss  Pearson  lives  in  the  Jail  with  her  father  and  goes  unescorted 
among  the  prisoners,  though  there  are  several  desperate  characters 
among  them,  giving  them  reading  matter,  talking  with  them  and  helping 
them  all  she  can.  One  of  the  wo^men  prisoners  was  taken  ill  a short  time 
ago.  Miss  Pearson  got  medicine  and  administered  it,  and  took  such 
good  care  of  her  that  she  said  afterwards,  “I  couldn’t  have  had  better 
care  if  I had  been  in  a hospital.”  Bill  Hands,  a negro  who  with  a 
white  associate  committed  a most  brutal  murder  a few  months  ago  and 
who  was  captured  by  Mr.  Pearson  and  his  deputies,  is  confined  in  this 
jail.  He  is  only  twenty-four  years  old'  and  will  be  imprisoned  for  life, 
as  the  evidence  against  him  is  absolute.  Miss  Pearson  and  the  turnkey’s 
wife  are  teaching  him  to  read,  in  order  that  his  state’s  prison  life  may 
be  passed  with  at  least  some  chance  of  betterment.  It  is  pathetic  to 
see  the  big  brutal  negro  slowly  learning  his  alphabet  and  spelling  out 
words  of  three  letters,  under  the  tuition  of  these  women. 

Said  the  wife  of  the  retiring  sheriff  to  Miss  Pearson,  when  the  latter 
came  to  the  jail,  “You  will  never  be  without  a good  laundress  while  you 
stay  here.  Mary  is  here  practically  all  of  the  time.  She  has  not  been 
out  of  jail  for  more  tham  ten  days  for  years.”  “Mary”  was  in  jail  at 
the  time,  as  well  as  her  husband,  “Pat,”  both  for  drunkenness  and  bad 
conduct  generally.  But  the  work  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pearson  began  to 
tell  even  upon  “Mary  and  Pat.”  Miss  Pearson^  made  a hat  and  a cape 
for  “Mary,”  and  “Pat”  went  out  clothed  in  Mr.  Pearson’s  clothes  from 
underclothes  to  overcoat.  They  both  took  the  pledge,  and  “Mary” 


374 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


said,  “I’ll  keep  that  pledge.  I’ll  not  come  back  here  again  out  of  respect 
for  Mr.  Pearson.” 

That  was  five  weeks  ago  the  day  before  yesterday.  Neither  “Mary” 
nor  “Pat”  have  been  back,  except  that  “Mary,”  well  clothed  and  respect- 
able looking,  called  on  Miss  Pearson  to  tell  her  how  they  were  getting 
along.  They  have  both  obtained  work  and  have  rented  a room  and  gone 
to  housekeeping.  “Mary”  has  been  urged  to  drink,  but  has  steadily 
refused.  What  the  ultimate  outcome  will  be,  none  can  tell,  but  at  the 
least,  she  has'  had  her  liberty  for  about  four  times  as  long  as  she  has 
enjoyed  at  one  time  for  a number  of  years. 

Mr.  Pearson  has  been  intending  to  have  a mid-week  prayer  service 
in  the  chapel ; but  it  is  not  lighted  and  the  county  commissioners,  who 
have  charge  of  the  expenses,  have  thus  far  refused  to  put  in  lights.  Mr. 
Pearson  has  paid  out  a great  deal  of  his  own  money  in  the  enforcement 
of  the  liquor  law  and  does  not  feel  able  to  bear  the  additional  expense 
at  present.  Five  of  the  prisoners  manifested  a desire  to  become  Chris- 
tians at  the  last  Sunday  service,  and  Mr.  Pearson  thinks  he  could  reach 
them  still  more  effectually  through  the  prayer  services. — The  New  Voice. 

WHEN  THE  UNEXPECTED  HAPPENED- 

I sat  in  the  Union  Station  in  a Southern  city  and  awaited  the 
coming  of  an  early  morning  train.  From  the  window  I gazed  upon  the 
still  smoking  ruins  of  three  popular  saloons,  which  had  been  burned  to 
the  ground  the  previous  night. 

“Terrible  fire  that  was  last  night,”  said  a stout,  red-faced  man  with 
whom  I was  slightly  acquainted.  “Did  you  come  out  and  see  it?” 

“No.” 

“Heavy  losses,  I learn,  andi  no  insurance  to  speak  of.  I’m  aA\-fully 
sorry  for  those  poor  fellows.” 

“I  can’t  say  that  I feel  any  sympathy,  for  I believe  their  loss  has 
been  the  town’s  gain.  I would  be  glad  if  W'e  had  every  saloon  here 
wiped  out.” 

“Do  you  mean  to  say,  madam,  that  you  are  so  heartless  and  narrow 
as  to  be  wholly  indifferent  to  a man’s  loss  of  property?” 

“When  the  property  is  a saloon  — a human  deadfall  — yes!  The 
few  who  profit  by  the  saloon  are  worthless  to  any  community.  Their 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


375 


gain  means  the  ruin  of  some  mother’s  son,  and  their  loss  is  a blessing 
to  any  town.” 

“And  you  pretend  to  be  a Christian ! Madam,  you  re  an  anarchist 
at  heart.  You  are  narrow  and  prejudiced  in  your  views.  I spent  two 
hours  fighting  that  fire  last  night,  and  so  did  several  of  these  young 
men.  I believe  we  did  our  duty  as  public-spirited  citizens.  Now  here 
comes  a lady  I am  sure  will  agree  with  me  in  the  opinion  that  the  saloon 
man’s  rights  should  be  protected  just  the  same  as  those  of  the  merchant 
or  professional  man.  Ma:dam,  your  face  tells  me  that  you  have  broad 
views  and  a womanly  heart.  Haven’t  you  the  deepest  sympathy  for 
these  unfortunate  saloon  men?” 

The  woman  was  small  and  faded,  with  a care-worn  face  and  tear- 
dimmed  blue  eyes.  She  sat  silent  a moment,  then  rose  and  clasped  her 
hands  in  a dramatic  gesture. 

“Do  I sympathize  with  the  saloon  men’s  losses?  * Listen,  and  hear 
what  the  saloon  has  done  for  me : 

“Twelve  years  ago  my  husband  was  one  of  the  leading  merchants 
of  this  city.  I came  here  as  a, bride,  and  our  home  was  all  that  heart 
could  wish.  But  my  husband  formed'  the  habit  of  drinking,  and  it  grew. 
These  saloons  were  open  after  business  hours,  and  he  would  drop  in  after 
working  hours  and  treat  his  friends.  He  began  to  come  home  drunk. 
My  tears  and  pleadings  were  useless,  for  the  temptation  was  ever  before 
him.  The  habit  brought  business  failure,  and  our  home  was  sold.  We 
live  in  a shabby  little  house  in  a suburb,  and  there  are  nights  when  my 
little  girl  and  I hide  in  some  outhouse  until  daybreak,  fearing  to  enter 
the  house  until  the  drunken  fit  has  worn  off.  There  have  been  weeks 
when  we  never  saw  the  one  who  should  be  our  protector,  or  knew  where 
he  was.  The  saloonkeeper  will  take  care  of  him  as  long  as  he  has  any 
money.  My  child  and'  I eke  out  a living  iii  any  way  we  can. 

“Do  I sympathize  with  the  saloon  man’s  losses?  No  — a thousand 
times  NO.  The  few  dollars  they  lose  is  a pittance  to  the  losses  they 
bring  to  the  helpless.  Sympathy?  I’d  as  soon  sympathize  with  the 
midnight  assassin,  who  failed  in  his  aim  to  take  a life ; or  with  the ” 

“East-bound  train,”  called  the  porter. 

The  faded  little  woman  gathered  up  her  bundles  and  started  for  the 
door.  The  stout  man  and  the  boys  who  had  tried  to  preserve  the  saloon 
men’s  property  silently  dispersed.  The  worm  had  turned ; the  unexpected 
had  happened ! — Jennie  N.  Standifer  in  Union  Signal. 


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STORIES  OB'  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


A FATHER’S  RESPONSIBILITY. 

“On  the  other  side  of  the  ocean,  just  before  I left  home  last  Septem- 
ber, a mother  suddenly  came  into  the  room  where  there  was  a little 
boy  six  or  seven  years  old,  and  found  that  little  boy  trying  to  kill  a 
b'aby  two  years  old  with  the  scissors,  and  she  said  to  the  child,  ‘What 
are  you  doing?’  and  he  said,  ‘I  want  to  kill  him.’  It  frightened  the 
mother,  and  she  talked  to  the  father  about  it,  and  the  father  took  him  to 
a doctor,  and  he  took  him  to  a specialist,  and  that  specialist  was  my 
friend.  He  examined  the  child  thoroughly,  and  said  to  him : ‘Why  do 
you  want  to  kill  the  baby;  it  does  not  hurt  you?’  And  the  boy  replied, 
‘I  want  to  kill  somebody  all  the  time.’  And  the  doctor  turned  to  the 
father,  and  said,  ‘Are  you  a drinking  man?’  The  father  said,  ‘Well,  I 
do  drink,  it  is  true,  but  I don’t  often  drink  to  excess.’  The  doctor  re- 
plied: ‘Well,  you  drink.  That  boy  w'ill  kill  somebody  some  day.  It  is 
in  his  blood,  and  your  drinking  habit  is  the  cause  of  it.’  You  reap  what 
you  sow.  Don’t  forget  it.  You  are  passing  on  what  you  are  to  the  next 
generation,  and  God  Almighty  will  hold  some  of  3'ou  men  responsible 
for  bringing  into  the  world  assassins,  murderers  and  cut-throats.  Don't 
forget  it.  What  we  sow  we  shall  reap.’  ” — Selected  by  Church  Advocate. 

OVER  A GLASS  OF  WINE. 

They  had  been  introduced,  of  course,  but  he  spoke  to  her  first  at 
dinner. 

“May  I pour  you  a little  wine?’’  he  asked. 

“Thank  you,”  she  said  simply,  “a  little  claret.  I drink  only  claret.” 

“You  don’t  care  for  the  sweet  wines?” 

“I  don’t  think  I realh"  care  for  any  wine,  but  this  is  what  we  drink 
at  home.  You  did  not  pour  any  for  yourself,”  she  added,  a moment  later. 

He  smiled:  “It  would  be  for  the  first  time  in  my  life  if  I had." 

“How  strange !”  She  looked  at  him  pointblank  with  a pair  of  clear 
and  very  kind  eyes.  “Have  ^-ou  scruples?  Do  you  think  it  is  wrong?” 

“Well”  — he  drew  a long  breath  — “hardly.  Yet  for  me  it  would 
be  a wrong.” 

The  color  deepenea  on  her  cheek  a little.  He  saw  her  check  back 
a word  from  her  lips,  and  the  shadow  that  swept  over  her  face  was 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


377 


sweeter  than  any  brightness.  But  he  could  not  appropriate  her  unmerited 
sympathy. 

“No  — no,”  he  declared,  laughing  slightly.  “It  is  not  at  all  a temp- 
tation to  me.  I have  never  known  the  taste  of  any  sort  of  liquor. 
I think  I have  a great  advantage  against  fate  in  this,  and  — I mean 
to  keep  it.” 

“Then  you  are  afraid  after  all.” 

“Sometimes  we  recognize  danger  though  we  may  not  fear  it.” 

“If  it  be  danger,  you  must  fear  it.  You  do,  or  you  would  not  take 
precautions.” 

He  looked  down  and  met  her  earnest  glance.  She  was  forgetting 
her  dinner. 

“If  you  were  not  afraid,”  she  went  on,  impulsively,  “wine  would 
seem  to  you  as  harmless  as  water.  It  is  because  you  have  fear  that 
you  will  not  touch  it.” 

He  was  at  a loss  just  there.  It  was  difficult  to  meet  her  candor 
without  a touch  of  seeming  discourtesy. 

“Suppose  I drink  to  your  better  course?”  she  said.  A roguish  dimple 
showed  itself.  “This  deadly  cup  has  no  terror  for  me.” 

He  raised  his  crystal  goblet  and  drank  to  her  in  sparkling  water 
saying  gently,  “But  of  my  cup  not  one  need  be  afraid.” 

There  was  a pause.  She  had  not  lifted  the  wine  to  her  lips.  A 
servant  came  to  remove  the  course,  and  someone  spoke  to  her  across 
the  table.  When  he  could  claim  her  attention  again,  he  was  ready  with 
a bright  remark  about  the  beauty  of  some  roses  in  a vase  near  them. 

“Yes  — so  pretty  — pretty,”  she  said,  vaguely,  and  with  promise  in 
her  tone:  “We  had  not  exhausted  our  topic,  I think.  May  I ask  — is 
it  your  conviction  that  liquor  should  not  be  used  in  any  form?” 

“You  are  unmerciful,”  he  deprecated.  “Think  how  ungracious  it 
would  seem  to  object  to  anything  under  such  surroundings.” 

“Never  mind  about  being  complimentary,”  she  replied  gravely.  “I 
have  never  before  given  one  serious  thought  to  this  question  of  tem- 
perance. The  people  I live  among  — and  they  are  all  upright,  intelligent 
and  refined  — regard  the  moderate  use  of  liquor  as  indispensable.  Surely 
you  must  admit  that  there  are  thousands  who  are  not  in  any  way 
injured  by  its  use.” 

“I  know,”  he  said,  quickly,  “but  there  are  millions  and  millions  — 
the  jails  will  tell  you  — the  hospitals ” 


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STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


He  stopped  abruptly. 

“Yes,”  she  said,  thoughtfully,  “yes;  but  why  not  take  the  good  and 
avoid  the  evil?  We  need  not  become  drunkards  because  we  use  liquor?” 

He  met  the  appeal  of  her  earnest  eyes'  with  a look  as  earnest. 

“Since  you  desire  it,”  he  answered,  steadily,  “let  me  say  one  word, 
and  then,  I think,  I will  say  no  more.  If  you  never  touch  liquor,  jx)u 
not  only  need  not,  you  cannot  become  a drunkard.  But  if  it  once  crosses 
your  lips,  the  first  step  is  taken.” 

There  was  a long  silence  between  them.  The  rest  of  the  guests  went 
on  talking  gaily.  Presently  she  spoke,  but  so  low  that  he  had  to  bend 
his  ear  to  listen. 

“You  have  given  me  a wonderful  message,”  she  said.  She  pushed 
aside  her  glass  of  wine,  and  in  the  simple  act  he  knew  there  was  con- 
secration.— Ladies’  Home  Journal. 

MORE  OF  WHISKEY’S  WORK. 

Licensed  whiskey  startled  pre-occupied,  indifferent  New  York  Satur- 
day, when  its  latest  tragedy  transpired.  The  great  papers  reported  it 
as  prominently  as  war  news  from  Manchuria,  and  for  a few  hours  the 
horror  of  the  protected  liquor  traffic  at  home  rivalled  sensational  cables 
from  Asiatic  battlefields.  It  was  only  one  incident  of  the  drink  business, 
but  it  shot  a lightning  flash  of  fact  across  the  under  world,  where  the 
traffic  is  breeding  similar  tragedies. 

Frank  Krijack,  of  213  East  73rd  Street,  “too  intoxicated  to  make  a 
statement,”  sits  in  a cell  at  the  East  67th  Street  station,  charged  with 
beating  out  the  brains  of  his  little  three-hour-old  baby  girl.  Under  the 
startling,  two-column  head,  “Whisky’s  Work,”  the  American  tells  the 
facts,  among  which  are  the  following: 

“In  the  small,  dark  bedroom  the  mother  lies  sobbing  with  a two- 
year-old  baby  girl  beside  her  in  the  bed.  She  does  not  know  her  husband 
is  charged  with  murder,  but  believes  the  babe  died  by  her  side,  and  con- 
stantly asks  when  her  husband  will  return. 

“At  the  East  67th  Street  police  station  the  husband,  Erank  Krijack, 
is  held  without  bail  on  a charge  of  homicide.  He  was  too  intoxicated  to 
make  a statement. 

“According  to  statements  to  the  police,  Krijack,  a large  and  muscular 
man  thirty-six  years  old,  came  home  at  9 o’clock  yesterday  morning  in 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


379 


a state  of  intoxication,  and  when  he  heard  that  his  wife  had  given  birth 
to  a girl,  took  the  baby  from  her  arms,  carried  it  to  the  adjoining  room, 
and,  after  upbraiding  his  wife  for  giving  birth  to  a girl  when  his  heart 
was  set  upon  a boy,  took  the  new-born  babe  by  the  legs,  swung  it 
around  and  tossed  it  into  the  adjoining  room,  where  its  head  struck  a 
sofa.  Then  he  left  home.  The  child  died  a few  minutes  later. 

“The  police  records  hold  no  parallel  of  a case  where  destitution, 
debauch  and  death  met  together  under  such  pitiable,  and  at  the  same 
time,  brutally  criminal  conditions. 

“Mrs.  Krijack  is  a comely,  black-haired  woman  about  thirty  years 
old.  She  has  been  married  nine  years.  In  1898  their  first  baby  was 
born,  a girl,  who  is  now  seven  years  old.  Another  girl  came  two  years 
later,  but  died  when  eight  months  old.  The  third  child,  another  little 
girl,  was  born  two  years  ago. 

“Krijack  started  from  his  home  at  2 o’clock  )resterday  morning  for 
his  work.  His  wife  was  then  ill,  and  a woman  neighbor  came  in. 

“Mrs.  Rice,  Mrs.  O’Leary  and  Mrs.  Mary  Simpson,  the  janitress, 
waited  upon  the  mother  and  dressed  the  baby.  Then  the  mother  was 
given  whiskey  in  milk  until  she  was  well  under  the  influence  of  drink. 
Mrs.  Rice  and  Mrs.  O’Leary  drank  freely,  and  it  was  soon  known 
throughout  the  house  by  the  loud  talk,  screams  and  laughter,  that  a 
drunken  orgie  was  in  full  swing  in  the  Krijack’s  rooms. 

“‘Why  doesn’t  my  husband  come?’  asked  Mrs.  Krijack  last  night. 
‘My  poor  little  baby  is  dead.  I am  so  unfortunate.’ 

“ ‘When  I woke  up  and  felt  my  little  baby’s  mouth,  it  was  cold,  and 
I knew  that  she  was  dead.  I am  so  unfortunate.  But  the  doctors  said 
it  was  sickly  and  could  not  live.  When  will  my  husband  be  home?  He 
will  be  home  soon,  I know.’  ” 

What  can  not  be  forgotten  in  this  connection,  is  the  startling  fact 
that  there  are  ten  thousand  places  in  this  great  city  where  the  poison 
responsible  for  this  tragedy  is  being  sold  night  and  day  as  freely  as 
milk,  under  the  sanction  and  protection  of  law.  And  the  surprise  when- 
ever a case  like  this  comes  to  hand,  is  not  that  it  happened,  but  that  it 
did  not  happen  before.  And  all  the  while  one  of  these  terrible  stories 
is  getting  into  print,  ten  thousand  other  stories  as  sad,  as  heartless  and 
as  inevitable  as  this  one,  but  hidden  in  the  privacy  of  stricken  homes, 
are  being  written  in  the  hearts  of  the  motherhood  and  childhood  of  the 


380 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


metropolis,  who  must  suffer  on  in  silence  while  the  people  compromise 
with  wrong  for  a revenue  bribe. 

The  startling  fact  is,  however,  that  the  newspapers  are  telling  the 
truth  about  whiskey  in  their  news  columns  as  never  before.  When  a 
great  metropolitan  journal  puts  “WHISKY’S  WORK”  in  its  news  lines, 
it  is  a remarkable  evidence  of  the  progress  of  the  great  reform  in  liquor’s 
mightiest  stronghold.  The  agitation  is  spreading  beyond  the  confines 
of  church  and  party,  and  by  the  very  fiendness  of  the  traffic  itself,  now 
commands  “leader”  space  in  the  great  dailies  of  the  metropolis. — The 
Advance. 

JOHN  G.  WOOLLEY’S  CONVERSION. 

Thirteen  years  ago  John  G.  Woolley,  the  distinguished  temperance 
lecturer  and  eloquent  Prohibitionist,  was  a helpless,  hopeless  victim,  of 
the  appetite  for  strong  drink.  Although  he  w^as  the  possessor  of  one 
of  the  brightest  intellects  in  his  profession,  and  commanded  a law  prac- 
tice worth  $25,000  a year,  and  was  the  master  of  an  eloquence  that 
enabled  him  to  sway  audiences  at  will,  yet  he  had  fallen  to  the  very 
depths  of  woe  and  helplessness. 

How  he  rose  out  of  this  helpless,  hopeless  state  is  told  by  his  own 
pen  in  the  Ram’s  Horn,  and  we  give  it  below  in  the  hope  that  it  may 
be  used  to  help  other  poor  souls  who  are  still  held  by  the  grip  of  a like 
habit,  more  remorseless  and  firm  than  the  chains  that  bound  Prometheus 
to  the  rock  on  Mount  Caucasus.  ]\Ir.  Woolley  says : 

“It  is  enough  to  say,  and  so  much,  I think,  is  perfectly  true,  that  I 
went  to  bed  on  the  night  of  the  30th  of  January,  1888,  perfectly  con- 
scious that  I was  a slave  of  alcohol  and  ruined  be3'ond  retrieve.  I had 
had  many  chances,  and  had  forfeited  them  all.  I had  suffered  beyond 
any  power  of  description,  but  had  never  acknowledged  myself  beaten. 
But  this  was  defeat  — utter,  merciless,  hopeless.  No  business  offer 
would  have  tempted  me  to  try  again.  I knew  the  old  fight  was  done, 
and  that  the  next  thing  was  to  be  something  else  — death  or  something. 
Every  fiber  of  me  quivered  with  a sense  of  something  new  impending. 
I thought  the  situation  over  with  the  desperate  calm  that  I have  seen 
in  men  who,  waiting  in  their  cells  with  the  eye  of  the  death-watch  at  the 
wicket,  listened  to  the  finishing  strokes  upon  the  gallows  that  at  day- 
break was  to  end  all. 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


381 


“I  had  had  high  ideals,  but  no  principles,  and  had  drifted  to  ruin, 
not  only  against  reason  and  interest,  but  against  inclination,  for  lack 
of  landmarks.  I saw  this  clearly.  Shame  and  sorrow  unutterable  sub- 
merged me  like  a tidal  wave.  I prayed.  Despair  made  me  do  it ; nothing 
else.  I had  no  creed,  ‘no  faith.’  I suffered,  that  was  all.  The  cry 
brought  help.  ‘I  remembered  God,’  and'  my  broken  heart  yearned  toward 
him  as  if  I had  always  known  him.  The  Spirit  bore  witness  with  my 
spirit  that  I was  born  of  him,  not  because  of  anything  that  was  happen- 
ing then  (the  whole  experience  was  absolutely  void  of  any  definitions 
or  any  ‘theology’),  but  just  because  I WAS. 

“What  followed  was  simply  a decision  that  seemed  to  be  endorsed 
by  omnipotence.  I knew  it  was  final.  I wakened  my  wife  and  told  her. 
Her  faith  was  instantaneous  and  as  conclusive  as  my  own.  The  decision 
drew,  like  a magnet,  scriptures  that  I had  learned  in  childhood, 
experiences  that  had  not  interested  me  before,  sermons  and  teachings, 
and  old  feelings  of  my  own,  long  lost  in  mind:  We  rose  from  our  bed, 
brought  from  my  trunk  a little  Bible  given  me  by  my  mother  on  my 
fourteenth  birthday,  which,  by  some  good  providence,  had  clung  to  me 
through  all  the  years,  opened  it  at  random,  and  read  the  forty-third 
chapter  of  Isaiah,  which  begins  like  the  roll  of  a great  organ : ‘But 
now  thus  said  the  Lord  that  created  thee,  O Jacob,  and  he  that  formed 
thee,  O Israel ; fear  not  for  I have  redeemed  thee ; I have  called'  thee 
by  my  name ; thou  art  mine.’  And  when  the  sun  rose  that  morning,  we 
two  were  bending  over  that  book,  weeping  together.” — Religious 
Telescope. 

IN  THE  DIVES  OF  ST.  LOUIS. 

If  the  people  of  this  land  could  go  with  us  in  our  midnight  work 
through  the  dives  of  this  city  and  behold  the  thousands  of  young  men 
and  women  who  have  been  wrecked  by  the  accursed  liquor  traffic,  surely 
every  honorable  man  in  America  would  vote  to  put  this  evil  out  of 
existence. 

Many  new  faces,  beautiful  young  girls,  are  found  in  these  resorts 
that  were  not  here  before  the  Fair  opened.  According  to  their  state- 
ments, a large  number  of  them  have  come  from  a distance.  Some  of 
them  weep  bitterly  as  we  talk  to  them,  and  they  say  they  were  once 
Christians,  that  they  have  good,  homes  and  parents,  and  their  parents 
do  not  know  they  are  in  such  places. 


382 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


We  asked  one  young  girl  how  she  came  to  be  in  the  place.  She 
said  she  came  to  the  Fair  and  got  in  with  some  bad  people.  The  tears 
rolled  down  her  cheeks  as  she  told  us  she  had  a father  and  three 
brothers  at  home  who  were  never  in  a place  of  that  kind. 

O,  fathers  and  brothers,  do  you  realize  that  you  are  voting  for  and 
protecting  these  vile  resorts  which  exist  only  to  capture  and  ruin  your 
daughters  and  sisters?  Could  the  fathers  and  brothers  of  that  girl  have 
heard  the  language  which  was  addressed  to  her  by  these  half-drunken, 
inhuman  creatures  who  thronged  the  place  and  witnessed  their  indecent 
actions  toward  her  and  other  girls,  we  believe  they  would  have  deter- 
mined vengeance  against  the  saloon  and  brothel. 

As  we  plead  with  the  girl  to  go  home  with  us  and  she  seemed  about 
to  yield,  we  were  surrounded  by  a crowd  of  toughs  who  separated  us  and 
hurried  her  out  of  the  room.  At  this  point  the  proprietor,  who  was  the 
saloonkeeper,  came  up  and  angrily  ordered  us  to  leave  the  place,  and 
said  he  paid  his  license  and  we  had  no  right  to  interfere  with  his  business, 
and  we  were  told  that  a policeman  would  be  called  if  we  did  not  go.  The 
saloonkeeper  was  right.  The  voters  of  our  land  have  given  him  per- 
mission to  keep  open  these  death-traps  and  to  furnish  the  drugged  wines 
and  other  liquors  by  which  young  girls  are  rendered  powerless  and  are 
ruined,  and  doubtless  the  father  and  brothers  of  that  poor,  debauched 
girl  by  their  votes  helped  to  wreck  her  life.  O,  it  is  terrible ! God  help 
men  and  women  of  this  land  to  arouse,  and  fight  this  curse  of  our  land 
as  never  before. 

On  Saturday  night.  May  21,  two  women  who  were  out  in  slum  work,  • 
were  walking  along  Pine  Street.  They  passed  a saloon  where  a crowd 
of  men  were  standing.  A carriage  stood  by  the  walk  and  in  it  sat  a 
young  girl.  A man  stood  trying  to  get  her  to  say  something.  The  girl 
was  either  under  the  influence  of  liquor  or  drugs,  and  was  almost  in  an 
unconscious  condition.  The  ladies  turned  to  her  and  asked  her  if  she 
were  sick.  The  man  who  looked  to  be  a coachman,  replied  sharply  that 
she  was  not  sick,  that  she  was  only  waiting  for  her  friend  who  would 
soon  be  there.  The  ladies  insisted  that  there  was  something  the  matter 
with  the  girl,  and  one  pf  them  said  to  her : “My  dear,  where  is  3'our 
home?”  The  driver  turned  to  her  and  said  fiercely:  “It  is  none  of  )-our 
business  where  her  home  is.”  She  replied : “It  is  my  business.”  Before 
the  women  could  say  another  word,  much  less  call  a policeman,  and 
there  was  none  to  be  seen  in  the  neighborhood,  the  man  leaped  into  the 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


383 


carriage,  plied  the  whip  to  the  horses,  and  was  soon  ont  of  sight.  While 
these  rescue  workers  had  been  talking  to  this  man,  every  man  in  front 
of  the  saloon  had  disappeared.  The  devil  is  about  his  business  whether 
people  know  it  or  not. — Gospel  Message. 

WHY  HE  SWORE  OFF. 

“No,  I won’t  drink  with  you  to-day,  boys !”  said  a drummer  to 
several  companions,  as  they  settled  down  in  the  smoking-car  and  passed 
the  bottle.  “The  fact  is,  boys,  I have  quit  drinking — I’ve  sworn  off.” 

His  words  were  greeted  by  shouts  of  laughter  by  the  jolly  crowd 
around  him ; they  put  the  bottle  under  his  nose  and  indulged  in  many 
jokes  at  his  expense,  but  he  refused  to  drink,  and  was  rather  serious 
about  it. 

“What  is  the  matter  with  you,  old  boy?”  sang  out  one.  “If  you’ve 
sworn  off  drinking,  something  is  up ; tell  us  what  it  is.” 

“Well,  boys,  I will,  although  I know  you’ll  laugh  at  me.  But  I’ll 
tell  you  all  the  same.  I have  been  a drinking  man  all  my  life,  ever 
since  I was  married;  as  you  all  know,  I love  whiskey  — it’s  as  sweet  in 
my  mouth  as  sugar  — and  God  only  knows  how  I’ll  quit  it.  For  seven 
years  not  a day  has  passed  over  my  head  that  I didn’t  have  at  least  one 
drink.  But  I am  done.  Yesterday  I was  in  Chicago.  On  South  Clark 
Street  a customer  of  mine  keeps  a pawnshop  in  connection  with  other 
branches  of  business.  Well,  I called  on  him,  and  while  I was  there,  a 
young  man  not  more  than  twent3^five,  wearing  threadbare  clothes,  and 
looking  as  hard  as  if  he  hadn’t  seen  a sober  day  for  a month,  came  in 
with  a little  package  in  his  hand.  Tremblingly  he  unwrapped  it,  and 
handed  the  article  to  the  pawnbroker,  saying: 

“ ‘Give  me  ten  cents.’ 

“And  boys,  what  do  you  suppose  it  was?  A pair  of  baby  shoes, 
little  things  with  the  buttons  only  a trifle  soiled,  as  if  they  had  been 
worn  only  once  or  twice.  ' 

“ ‘Where  did  you  get  these?’  asked  the  pawnbroker. 

“ ‘Got  ’em  at  home,’  replied  the  man,  who  had  an  intelligent  face  and 
the  manner  of  a gentleman,  despite  his  sad  condition.  ‘My  — my  wife 
bought  them  for  our  baby.  Give  me  ten  cents  for  ’em  — I want  a drink.’ 

“‘You  had  better  take  the  shoes  back  to  your  wife;  the  baby  will 
need  them,’  said  the  pawnbroker. 


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STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


“ ‘No,  she  won’t,  becat:se  — because  she’s  dead.  She’s  lying  at  home 
now  — died  last  night.’ 

“As  he  said  this,  the  poor  fellow  broke  down,  bowed  his  head  on  the 
showcase,  and  cried  like  a child. 

“Boys,”  said  the  drummer,  “you  can  laugh  if  you  please,  but  I — I 
have  a baby  of  my  own  at  home,  and  I swear  I’ll  never  drink  another 
drop>” 

Then  he  got  up  and  went  into  another  car.  His  companions  glanced 
at  each  other  in  silence ; no  one  laughed ; the  bottle  disappeared ; and 
soon  each  was  sitting  in  a seat  by  himself  reading  a newspaper. — Chicago 
Record-Herald. 

A LESSON  OF  PATHOS  FROM  THE  POLICE  COURT. 

For  twenty  years  or  more  he  had  stood  in  the  police  court  now  and 
then,  to  answer  the  charge  of  being  intoxicated,  and  he  was  there  again 
yesterday  afternoon.  The  bloated  face  and  the  bloodshot  eyes  were 
silent  witnesses  of  the  offense  he  had  committed  so  often,  and  the  untidy 
and  unkempt  raiment,  mute  evidence  of  the  downfall  of  a man.  who  might 
have  been  a good  and  useful  citizen. 

He  offered  no  defense,  no  excuse,  for  he  knew  of  the  tale-evidence 
of  the  silent,  mute  witnesses  of  his  dissipation,  and  that  no  corroborative 
testimony  was  needed  to  stamp  the  seal  of  guilt  upon  him. 

Once  in  the  past,  some  time  ago,  he  had  stood  by  the  side  of  a 
smiling  maiden,  whose  heart  beat  rapidly  to  the  chimes  of  the  wedding 
bells.  Children’s  voices  had  made  sweet  music  in  his  home.  Love  and 
hope  had  waked  ambition’s  dearest  dreams. 

And  then  the  same  old  story  of  temptation  and  weakness  and 
drink,  and  the  going  down  step  by  step,  lower  and  lower,  until  nothing 
but  the  abyss  of  the  grave  itself  was  left. 

Many  years  has  the  maiden  who  smiled  when  the  wedding  bells 
were  ringing,  been  at  rest  under  the  kindly  sod  and  the  pitying  violets. 
Her  broken  heart  was  mercifully  given  the  rest  and  peace  of  the  tomb. 

It  was  said  that  when  she  passed  away,  that  his  only  friend  was 
gone,  and  there  would  be  none  to  help  him  when  he  was  dragged  to 
the  police  court,  and  the  chain  gang  was  staring  him  in  the  face,  for 
until  her  wearied  soul  laid  down  the  burdens  of  life,  she  never  forsook 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


385 


him,  and  time  and  again  she  paid  the  court  fines  with  the  money  she 
had  earned  with  needle  and  thread. 

When  he  stood  in  the  police  court  yesterday  afternoon,  the  judge 
said: 

‘T  hate  to  fine  you.  I remember  you  when  I was  a little  boy,  and 
the  story  of  your  life  is  well  known  to  me.  I can  do  nothing,  however, 
except  what  the  law  demands  of  me.  The  fine  is  three  dollars  and  the 
cost  of  court.” 

There  was  sitting  in  the  court  a man  who  had  been  a schoolmate 
of  the  prisoner  at  the  bar.  He  had  not  seen  him  in  many  years,  and 
he  whispered  to  the  judge: 

“I  don’t  suppose  there  is  anyone  to  pay  his  fine,  for  I hear  his 
faithful  wife  has'  been  dead  for  a long  while.  I hate  to  see  him  go  to 
the  chain-gang.” 

From  the  crowd  of  spectators  in  the  courtroom  a little  boy  came, 
a lad,  who  was  not  more  than  a child,  and  he  slipped  his  hand  into  that 
of  the  prisoner  and  led  him  away,  saying  to  the  officer : 

“I  will  pay  father’s  fine.” 

The  lad  earns  a small  salary  as  cashboy  in  a city  store. 

Despite  the  bloated  features,  the  bloodshot  eyes  and  the  palsied 
limbs,  his  old  father  still ; the  years  ago,  when  that  father  held  him  in 
his  arms  or  led  him  as  he  toddled  by  his  side,  were  not  forgotten. 

The  grave  under  the  sod  and  the  violets  had  not  hid  the  poor 
creature’s  only  friend. — Atlanta  Constitution. 

A STRAIGHT  TRANSACTION. 

“The  proof  of  the  application  of  the  word  of  God,”  says  William 
Taylor,  “is  the  radical  change  it  produces  in  the  hearts  and  lives  of 
those  who  receive  it.  I knew  a man  in  the  bounds  of  the  second  circuit 
of  my  ministry  by  the  name  of  Beck.  When  awakened  by  the  Holy 
Spirit  at  a camp-meeting  near  his  residence,  he  said  to  himself,  as  I 
heard  him  repeat  subsequently,  T am  a rebel  against  God.  I ought  to 
abandon  sin,  and  return  to  God,  and  be  saved.  I am  a distiller.  All  I 
am  worth  I have  put  in  my  new  distillery.  I can’t  be  a distiller  and  be 
a Christian.  If  I give  up  my  distillery,  I will  become  bankrupt  and 
beggar  my  family.  If  I hold  on  to  it,  and  go  on  destroying  my  neigh- 
bors with  whiskey,  I will  lose  my  soul.  I don’t  want  to  beggar  my 


386 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


family,  but  I can’t  afford  to  destroy  myself.  I must  have  salvation  at  ■ 
any  cost.’  So  he  came  and  knelt  down  as  a seeker,  and  began  at  once,  i 
in  the  greatest  simplicity,  to  state  his  case  in  prayer  to  God,  about  as  j 
follows:  ‘Lord,  you  know  me,  you  know  what  a wicked  sinner  I ava,  ; 
and  what  a mean  business  I am  in.  All  I am  worth  is  in  the  still-house,  i 
which  I have  just  opened.  It  has  not  done  much  harm  yet,  and  I have  .i 
made  no  money  out  of  it ; Lord,  I can’t  afford  to  lose  my  soul,  so  if  you  ^ 
will  have  mercy  on  me  and  save  me  to-night,  and  trust  me  until  morning,  ■ 
I will  drag  the  still  out  of  the  house  and  put  it  where  it  will  never  f 
be  used  for  distilling  liquor.  I would  do  it  to-night,  but  I can  not;  and  ; 
I can’t  risk  my  soul  unsaved  till  morning.  You  have  said.  Now  is  the 
accepted  time ; behold  now  is  the  day  of  salvation.  I surrender  myself,  ^ 
soul  and  body,  to  thee,  now,  and  I receive  and  trust  Jesus  Christ  to  save  . 
me  now.’ 

“It  was  a straight  transaction,  and  God'  saved  him  that  night.  Next 
morning,  before  breakfast,  he  removed  the  still,  and  had  it  laid  beside  ■ 
his  dwelling,  and  there  it  lay  when  I saw  it  a couple  of  years  after-  : 
wards.  He  would  not  sell  it  to  be  used  by  any  one  for  distilling  i 
alcoholic  drinks. 

“He  said  that  God  converted  him  on  credit,  and  he  meant  to  carry  i 
out  his  part  of  the  agreement  to  the  end.  Yet  he  did  not  beggar  his 
family.  He  converted  his  still-house  into  a grist  mill,  and  made  a fair 
support.  Years  afterwards  he  went  to  the  mines'  of  California,  made  . 
money,  returned  to  Virginia  and  bought  a farm,  remained  true  to  God 
and  prospered.” — Selected  by  Way  of  Faith. 

' FERMENTED  WINE  AT  THE  SACRAMENT. 

I have  ten  children,  and  not  one  of  them  has  ever  tasted  intoxicating  ■ 
drink,  and  I tremble  at  the  thought  that  their  first  taste  should  be  from 
my  hand  and  as  a memorial  of  the  Saviour’s  dying  love. 

In  the  midst  of  my  perplexity  a mother  came  to  me,  whose  boy 
was  at  a public  school.  Drink  had  been  a great  curse  to  the  family, 
and  the  mother’s  first  thought  was  to  shield  her  boy  from  the  family 
curse,  and  she  trained  him  to  hate  drink.  He  wrote  home,  saying  that 
there  had  been  a revival  in  the  school,  and  that  he  and  others  of  the 
scholars  had  found  the  Saviour,  and  that  it  was  proposed  that  all  who 
had  found  the  Saviour  should  receive  the  Lord’s  Supper  together.  He 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


387 


said,  “I  should  like  to  do  this,  but  they  say  it  is  intoxicating  wine,  and 
I have  promised  you  that  I will  not  touch  it.  Tell  me,  mother,  what  I 
must  do.” 

This  led  me  to  see  clearly  that  it  could  not  be  according  to  the  mind 
of  Christ  that  so  many  thousands  of  young  people  and  hundreds  of  those 
who  had  been  rescued  from  drunkenness  should  be  led  into  temptation. 

I read  Rom.  14,  and  I could  not  help  but  feel  that  it  covered  the 
whole  ground,  especially  taking  with  it  Rom.  15 ; 1,  2,  3,  4 ,a»d  1 Cor.  8. 
We  are  not  to  put  a stumbling-block  or  occasion  to  fall  in  our  brother’s 
way.  We  dre  not  to  please  ourselves.  Those  of  us  who  are  strong,  are 
to  bear  the  infirmities  of  the  weak. 

I mentioned  the  matter  to  the  stewards,  and  they  saw  with  me. 
We  are  strong.  Drink  had  never  been  a snare  to  us,  and  it  was  a joy  to 
us  to  imitate  Christ.  We  have  used  the  “fruit  of  the  vine”  ever  since. 
The  custom  is  steadily  spreading  in  all  the  churches,  and  must  spread 
wherever  intelligent  Christian  principle  is  supreme. 

All  Christ  directed  was  that  the  fruit  of  the  vine  should  be  used. 
This  we  have,  and  those  who  take  brandied  port  (and  there  is  no  port 
that  is  not  brandied)  are  never  sure  that  what  they  take  has  any 
relation  to  the  vine.  So  that,  as  the  Archbishop  of  York  is  reported  to 
have  said  when  his  opinion  was  asked'  on  the  subject,  “You  who  take 
port  wine  may  be  right;  you  who  take  the  juice  of  the  grape  cannot 
be  wrong.” — Rev.  Charles  Garrett  in  Way  of  Faith. 

PATHETIC  CASE. 

The  thought  of  death  alone  is  sad,  but  sadder  still  is  it  to  die  far 
away  from  home,  without  having  your  dear  loved  ones  to  comfort  you 
in  your  last  moments.  Such  was  the  sad  ending  of  Oscar  B.  Byor,  who 
died  in  East  Jordan,  November  1,  1908,  aged  48  years,  3 months,  4 days. 
His  body  was  shipped  to  his  sister  at  Girard. 

Ten  years,  ago  the  late  Oscar  Byor  left  his  home  because  temptations 
for  drink  were  great.  He  resolved  to  get  away  and  make  a man  of  him- 
self, but  instead  he  found  that  after  leaving  his  dear  brothers  and  sisters, 
his  temptations  were  greater  on  account  of  the  enticing  evil  elements. 
Many  a time  he  had  resolved  to  brace  up,  but  evil  companions  urged  him 
on  and  robbed  him  of  his  last  cent.  Money  was  sent  him  by  his  brothers 


3S8 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


and  placed  in  the  hands  of  another  party  with  instructions  to  give  it  to 
him  only  when  sober.  His  so-called  friends  would  sober  him  up  only  to 
get  his  money.  As  long  as  he  had  money  he  was  their  friend,  but  when 
the  last  cent  was  spent  and  he  was  overcome  by  their  evil  water,  then 
he  was  kicked  out  on  the  street  like  a dog.  They  well  knew  his  circum- 
stances and  weakness.  Would  they  refuse  him  drink  and  help  the  poor 
man  brace  up?  No!  Instead,  they  helped  bring  him  to  his  grave. 

Sad,  indeed,  are  the  letters  written  to  G.  A.  Meyer,  Superintendent 
of  Poor,  by  sisters  and  brothers  of  this  man  regarding  his  life.  Although 
knowing  of  his  weakness,  they  loved  him  dearly,  and  tried  to  do  all  that 
was  in  their  power  for  their  poor,  unfortunate  brother,  and  if  there  is 
anyone  to  answer  for  the  downfall  of  this  one,  it  will  be  these  men  of 
evil  intent.  Woe  unto  them  I 

This  widespread  evil,  drunkenness,  is  every  day  contributing  directly 
or  indirectly  to  the  wretchedness  of  the  people,  doing  its  share  of 
damage  to  the  body  and  injury  to  the  soul.  No  evil  among  us  menaces 
so  badly  the  peace,  prosperity,  happiness,  moral  and  religious  welfare  of 
our  people  as  the  evil  of  drinking.  No  other  social  evil  disturbs  the 
family  relations,  and  renders  the  domestic  life  of  men,  women  and 
children  so  inhuman  and  hopeless  as  the  indulgence  in  strong  drinks. 

The  drunkard  squanders  his  honor  and  family  happiness.  How 
many  fathers  of  families  might  have  a happy  home  and  enjoy  a delight- 
ful family  life  if  it  were  not  for  this  great  evil  of  drunkenness?  Indeed, 
great  is  the  misery  which  the  evil  of  drunkenness  brings  upon  a family. 
A home  becomes  a half  hell  where  it  might  have  been  a paradise.  Pov- 
erty, want  and  distress  take  the  place  of  comfort ; grief  and  sorrow  bring- 
ing the  wife  to  an  early  grave. 

Remembering  how  great  is  the  dignity  of  the  human  soul,  possessed 
as  it  is,  of  the  light  that  streams  down  from  above  in  the  gift  of  reason, 
we  are  filled  with  horror  at  its  destruction  by  intemperance.  Appreciat- 
ing, as  we  do,  the  dignity  of  human  nature,  we  are  struck  dumb  at  the 
awful  destitution  of  it  that  takes  place  by  the  act  of  drunkenness.  As 
the  cup  draws  nearer  to  craving  lips,  the  angels  weep  and  the  devils 
laugh. 

This  dark  and  dreary  valley  is  filling  up  with  neglected  graves,  over 
each  of  which  experience  and  truth  have  united  to  place  this  mournful 
inscription,  “Here  lies  the  wreck  of  what  was  once  the  noblest  hand  -vork 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


389 


of  God  — a man  with  the  immortal  soul  redeemed  by  the  blood  of  Christ. 
It  has  been  shed  for  him  in  vain.” 

Statistics  given  by  the  Superintendent  of  Poor  show  that  75  pei 
cent  of  the  inmates  of  county  institutions  become  paupers  through  the 
use  of  liquor,  20  per  cent  through  inheritance  of  this  evil,  and  the  other 
5 per  cent  become  inmates  because  they  have  neither  friends  nor  relatives 
left  to  help  them  in  misfortune  or  old  age. 

The  Superintendent  of  the  Poor  comes  in  contact  with  many  pitiful 
cases  and  must  contend  with  many  undesirable  conditions. 

Who  is  to  blame? 

What  are  you  going  to  do  about  it  ? — J.  A.  Popolinski  in  The  Boyne 
Citizen. 

ROBERT  JOLLEY’S  TRAGEDY. 

Over  in  the  city  of  Indianapolis  there  was  a bright-faced  girl  of 
nine,  little  Gladys  Jolley.  She  was  murdered  by  her  father,  Robert 
Jolley,  in  a most  diabolical  fashion.  The  Indianapolis  Sun  tells  the 
story  of  how  this  crime  came  to  be  committed  in  the  following  brief 
words;  “For  some  days  Jolley  had  been  drinking.”  The  Indianapolis 
Star  enlarges  upon  this  whisky-drinking  murderer  as  follows:  “Jolley 
had  been  arrested  many  times  for  drunkenness.”  In  another  place  the 
statement  is  made  that  he  has  once  had  delirium  tremens.  On  June 
12th,  just  past,  when  he  went  home,  he  was  met  at  the  gate  by  his  sweet 
little  girl,  who  threw  her  arms  around  his  neck  and  said  that  she  was 
glad  that  her  papa  had  come.  This  man  who,  through  drink,  was  lost 
to  every  sense  of  paternal  love,  took  his  little  child,  the  offspring 
of  his  own  heart,  up  to  her  room,  and  there  amid  her  dolls  and  playthings, 
forced  carbolic  acid  down  her  throat  until  her  hazel  eyes  were  closed  in 
death.  Neighbors  heard  her  screams,  as  she  said:  “Papa,  papa,  please 
don’t  do  this !”  But  it  was  of  no  avail.  The  angelic  life  of  this  sweet 
baby  girl  was  snuffed  out  in  a brief  space  of  time,  and  another  horrible 
tragedy  was  added  to  the  long  line  of  murders  for  which  the  liquor 
traffic  is  responsible. — Vanguard. 

DRANK  NO  MORE  TEARS. 

In  several  places  in  the  Psalms  the  metaphor  is  used  of  the  beverage 
of  tears,  but  how  often  in  real  life  is  the  custom  of  drinking  the  tears  of 


390 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


their  wives  and  children,  fulfilled  in  the  lives  of  intemperate  husbands 
and  fathers  ? In  1885,  in  Arkansas,  this  scene  was  enacted : 

John  Speeler,  an  old  toper  of  long  standing  and  capacity,  on  being 
invited  by  some  of  his  boon  companions  to  “take  a drink,”  replied,  “Boys, 
I won’t  drink  without  you  take  what  I do.”  The  “boys”  were  surprised. 

“The  idea,”  said  one  of  them,  “that  you  should  prescribe  for  us. 
Perhaps  you  want  us  to  drink  one  of  your  mixtures.  You  are  a boss 
mixer  and  I won’t  agree  to  it.” 

“Perhaps  he  wants  to  run  some  castor  oil  on  us,”  said  another, 

“No,  I’m  square  — honor  bright.  Take  my  drink,  boys,  and  I am 
with  you.” 

They  agreed,  and  ranged  themselves  along  the  bar.  All  looked  at 
Speeler. 

“Mr.  Bartender,”  said  he,  “give  me  a glass  of  water.” 

“What?  Water?” 

“Yes,  water.  It’s  a new  drink  to  me,  boys,  I admit,  and  it’s  a 
scarce  article  around  here,  I expect.  But  let  me  tell  you  about  it.  A 
few  days  ago  a party  of  us  went  fishing.  We  took  a fine  share  of 
whiskey  along  and  had  a jolly  time.  Along  toward  evening  I got  power- 
ful drunk  and  crawled  off  under  a tree  and  went  to  sleep.  The  boys 
drank  up  all  the  whiskey  and  came  back  to  town.  They  thought  it  a 
good  joke  ’cause  they  left  me  out  there  and  told  it  around  the  town  with 
a big  laugh.  My  son  got  hold  of  the  report  an/d  told  it  at  home.  I lay 
under  that  tree  all  night,  and  when  I woke  in  the  morning,  my  wife  sat 
right  there  side  of  me.  She  said  nothin’  when  I woke  up,  but  turned 
her  head  away.  I could  see  she  was  a-cryin’.  T wish  I had  suthin’ 
to  drink,’  says  I.  Then  she  took  a cup  wot  she  fetched  with  her  and 
went  to  a spring  that  was  near  and  fotched  it  full. 

“Jest  as  she  was  handin’  it  to  me,  she  leant  over  to  hide  her  eyes, 
and  I saw  a tear  drop  inter  the  cup.  I tuk  and  drank,  and  raisin’  my 
hands  to  heaven  I vowed,  God  helping  me.  I’d  never  drink  my  wife’s 
tears  again,  as  I had  been  doin’  for  the  last  twenty  years,  and  that  I was 
goin’  to  stop.  You  boys  know  who  it  was  that  left  me.  You  all  was 
in  the  gang.  Give  me  another  glass  of  water,  Mr.  Bartender.” — Union 
Signal. 

JONATHAN  RIGDON’S  MONUMENT. 

“Jonathan  Rigdon  died  very  poor,  didn’t  he,  deacon?”  I said. 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


391 


“Yes,  they  buried  him  in  a pauper’s  grave.  Poor  Rigdon!  And 
he  had  a big  heart,”  said  the  deacon.  “He  spent  his  whole  life  and  a 
big  fortune  building  a monument  to  another  man.” 

“Was  the  monument  ever  finished,  deacon?” 

“Yes,  and  Jonathan  did  it.” 

“How?” 

“Well,”  said  the  deacon  sadly,  “Jonathan  commenced  it  early.  He 
commenced  putting  money  into  the  monument  at  seventeen  and  finished 
it  at  fifty.” 

“And  he  gave  his  whole  time  to  itr'* 

“Yes,  he  worked  night  and  day,  ofUM  all  night  long,  and  on  the 
Sabbath.  He  seemed  to  be  in  a great  hurry  to  get  it  done.  He  spent  all 
the  money  he  earned  upon  it  — some  say  $5,000.  Then  he  borrowed 
all  he  could;  and  when  no  one  would  loan  him  any  more,  he  would  take 
his  wife’s  dresses  and  the  bed  clothes  and  many  other  valuable  things  in 
his  home  and  sell  them  to  get  more  money  to  finish  the  monument.” 

“How  self-sacrificing!” 

“Yes,  Jonathan  sacrificed  everything  for  this  monument,”  said  the 
deacon  sadly.  “He  came  home  one  day  and  was  about  to  take  the 
blankets  that  lay  over  his  sleeping  baby,  and  his  wife  tried  to  stop  him ; 
but  he  drew  back  his  fist  and  knocked  her  down,  and  then  went  away 
with  the  blankets  and  never  brought  them  back,  and  the  poor  baby 
sickened  and  died  from  the  exposure.  At  last  there  was  nothing  left  in 
the  house.  The  poor  heartbroken  wife  soon  followed  the  baby  to  the 
grave.  Yet  Jonathan  kept  working  all  the  more  at  the  monument.  I 
saw  him  when  he  was  about  fifty  years  old.  The  monument  was  nearly 
done ; but  he  had  worked  so  at  it  that  I hardly  knew  him,  he  was  so 
worn;  his  clothes  were  all  in  tatters,  his  face  and  nose  were  terribly 
swollen.  And  the  wretched  man  had  been  so  little  in  good  society  all 
the  while  that  he  was  building  that  he  had  about  forgotten  how  to  use 
the  English  language ; his  tongue  had  somehow  become  very  thick,  and 
when  he  tried  to  speak,  out  would  come  an  oath.” 

“But  the  good  man  did  finally  accomplish  his  great  work?”  I said. 

“Yes,  he  finished  it,”  said  the  deacon,  his  eyes  moistening  with  tears. 

“Oh,  I should  so  like  to  see  it,”  I said. 

“Come  with  me,”  said  my  informant  sadly,  “and  I will  show  it  to 
you.  It  stands  in  a beautiful  part  of  the  city  where  five  streets  meet. 


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STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


Most  men  put  such  things  in  a cemetery.  But  John  had  his  own  way, 
and  put  it  in  one  of  the  finest  lots  , to  be  found.” 

“Does  it  look  like  Grant’s  monument?” 

“Yes,  it’s  a good  deal  like  Grant’s  monument.  It  is  a grand  house. 
There  it  is  — look  at  it!”  said  the  deacon,  pointing  to  a beautiful  man- 
sion. “See ! it  is  high  and  large,  with  great  walls  and  fireplaces,  and 
such  velvet  carpets,  and  oh,  what  mirrors ! Isn’t  it  rich  and  grand?” 

“And  who  lives  in  it,  deacon?” 

“Why,  the  man  who  sold  Jonathan  Rigdon  nearly  all  the  whiskey  he 
drank.  He  lives  there  with  his  family,  and  they  wear  the  richest  and  the 
finest  clothes,  and ” 

“And  poor  Jonathan?” 

“Why,  he’s  in  the  paupers’  graveyard.  Alas !”  sighed  the  deacon, 
“the  world  is  full  of  such  monuments'built  by  poor  drunkards  who  broke 
the  hearts  of  devoted  wives  and  starved  sweet  children  to  do  it.” — The 
New  Voice. 

A TOUCHING  LETTER. 

My  Dear  Son : What  would  you  think  of  yourself,  if  you  should 
come  to  our  bedside  every  night  and,  waking  up,  tell  us  that  you  would 
not  allow  us  to  sleep  any  more?  That  is  just  what  you  are  doing,  and 
that  is  why  I am  up  here  a little  after  midnight  writing  to  you.  Your 
mother  is  nearly  worn  out,  and  sighing  because  you  won’t  let  her  sleep  — 
that  mother  who  nursed  you  in  your  infancy,  toiled  for  you  in  your 
childhood,  and  looked  upon  you  with  pride  and  joy  when  you  were 
growing  up  to  manhood,  as  she  counted  on  the  comfort  and  support 
yxDU  would  give  her  in  her  declining  years. 

We  read  of  a most  barbarous  manner  in  which  one  of  the  Oriental 
nations  punishes  some  of  its  criminals.  It  is  by  cutting  the  flesh  from 
the  limbs,  beginning  with  the  fingers  and  toes,  one  joint  at  a time,  till 
the  wretched  victim  dies.  That  is  just  what  you  are  doing.  You  have 
‘ planted  many  of  the  white  hairs  now  appearing  so  thickly  in  her  head 
before  the  time.  Your  cruel  hand  is  drawing  the  lines  of  sorrow  on  her 
face,  making  her  look  prematurely  old.  You  might  as  well  stick  3-our 
knife  into  her  body  every  time  you  come  near  her,  for  your  conduct  is 
stabbing  her  to  the  heart.  You  might  as  well  bring  her  coffin  and  force 
her  into  it,  for  you  are  pressing  her  toward  it  with  very  rapid  steps. 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


393 


Would  you  tread  on  her  body  if  prostrated  on  the  floor?  And  yet  with 
ungrateful  foot  you  are  treading  on  her  heart  and  crushing  out  its  life 
and  joy  — no,  I needn’t  say  “joy,”  for  that  is  a word  we  have  long 
ceased  to  use,  because  you  have  taken  it  from  us.  Of  course,  we  have 
to  meet  our  friends  with  smiles,  but  they  little  know  of  the  bitterness 
within. 

You  have  taken  all  the  roses  out  of  your  sister’s  pathway  and  scat- 
tered thorns  instead,  and,  from  the  pain  they  inflict,  scalding  tears  are 
often  seen  coursing  down  her  cheeks.  Thus  you  are  blighting  her  life 
as  well  as  ours. 

And  what  can  you  promise  yourself  for  the  future?  Look  at  the 
miserable,  bloated,  ragged  wretches  that  you  see  every  day  on  the 
streets,  and  behold  in  them  an  exact  picture  of  what  you  are  fast  coming 
to  and  will  be  in  a few  years  hence.  Then  in  the  end  a drunkard’s 
grave  and  a drunkard’s  doom ! For  the  Bible  says  that  no  drunkard 
shall  inherit  the  kingdom  of  God.  Where,  then,  will  you  be,  if  not  in 
the  kingdom  of  God? 

Will  not  these  considerations  induce  jrou  to  reform  at  once?  And 
may  God  help  you  in  the  effort,  for  he  can  and  will  if  you  earnestly 
ask  him. 

Your  affectionate  but  sorrow-stricke®  Father. 

— Way  of  Faith. 

THE  CAPTAIN’S  METHOD. 

The  papers  tell  of  a soldier  in  the  Philippines  who  discourses  upon 
a new  cure  for  drunkenness  among  the  soldiers.  “We  have,”  he  says, 
“a  lot  of  native  soldiers  enlisted  here.  When  one  of  the  white  boys  get 
drunk,  the  captain  puts  a native  soldier  over  him,  and  the  native  puts 
on  lots  of  airs  while  marching  him  around.  It  grinds  the  boys  so  that 
they  wouldn’t  get  drunk  if  they  could.” — National  Advocate. 

THE  LIQUOR  DEALER’S  DIARY. 

No  man  can  injure  others  without  injuring  or  imperiling  himself. 
In  some  way  or  other  injury  wrought  upon  others  is  sure  to  recoil  upon 
the  heads  of  those  concerned  in  it.  Sometimes  it  is  -through  the  evident 
relation  of  cause  and  effect;  at  other  times  it  is  through  the  equally 
evident  interposition  of  the  retributive  providence  of  God,  whose  curse 


394 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


is  upon  the  habitations  of  evil-doers,  and  upon  all  their  gains  and  pos- 
sessions. 

It  is  not  a light  thing  to  incur  the  wrath  of  God  which  is  revealed 
from  heaven  against  all  ungodliness.  It  is  not  a light  thing  to  brave 
the  judgments  of  the  Almighty  which  are  “true  and  righteous  altogether.” 
He  who  will  not  heed  God’s  counsel  may  be  brought  to  consider  and 
heed  his  judgments,  to  hear  the  rod  and  him  who  hath  appointed  it. 

Perhaps  in  no  line  of  human  conduct  are  the  judgments  of  God  more 
strikingly  manifest  than  in  his  dealings  with  men  who  engage  in  the 
traffic  of  strong  drink. 

In  many  ifistances  their  enormous  possessions  take  wings  and  fly 
away;  their  gains  are  cursed;  their  families  are  ruined  by  evil  habits  and 
associations ; constitutions  are  broken ; minds  and  bodies  are  wrecked ; 
and  sudden  and  premature  death  closes  the  earthly  career  of  men  who 
engage  in  this  horrible  and  accursed  business. 

Any  life  insurance  company  insuring  at  ordinary  rates  the  lives  of 
men  concerned  in  the  drink  traffic,  would  certainly  be  bankrupted  by 
their  enormous  death  rate.  This  has  been  proven  true  in  England  by 
actual  experiment.  Some  of  the  best  life  insurance  companies  utterly 
refuse  to  insure  the  lives  of  liquor  dealers  on  any  terms. 

Let  a man  study  this  subject  in  the  light  of  facts  easily  obtainable, 
and  he  will  find  these  statements  to  be  true ; and  if  some  of  the  men 
engaged  in  the  liquor  business  could  be  made  aware  of  the  facts  and 
statistics  which  are  extant  on  thiS'  subject,  they  would  get  out  of  the 
liquor  business  as  Lot  got  out  of  Sodom.  Now  and  then  a man  gets  his 
eyes  open  to  the  true  state  of  the  case,  and  makes  haste  to  escape  the 
clutches  of  the  adversary  before  it  is  too  late. 

“Not  long  ago,”  said  Mr.  Stewart,  “a  young  man,  a spirit  merchant, 
built  a large  house  in  the  country,  and  was  retiring  from  business.  When 
he  first  told  me  of  his  intention,  I was  much  surprised,  for  he  was  very 
young,  and  I remarked  to  him : ‘Surely  the  spirit  traffic  is  a paying 
business  when  you  are  able  to  retire  so  soon.’  ‘No,’  he  answered,  ‘it  is 
not  that ; I have  retired  from  it  through  fear.’  And  then  he  went  on  to 
tell  me  that  he  was  a wholesale  merchant,  and  sold  to  many  retail 
dealers.  He  had  a diary  kept  in  which  he  entered  all  the  names  and 
Iges  of  his  customers,  and  when  and  how  they  died  and  he  said : 

‘I  watched,  with  deep  regret,  many  of  those  who  came  into  this 
business,  gradually  slipping  downward.  When  I called  on  some  before 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


395 


eleven  o’clock  in  the  morning,  they  were  so  stupefied  by  drink  that  they 
were  scarcely  able  to  conduct  business.  One  morning,  on  looking 
through  my  diary,  I was  struck  with  the  number  of  names  I had 
entered  there  as  having  died  suddenly  through  the  effect  of  strong 
drink.  From  that  moment  I shut  the  book  and  resolved  that  I would 
be  done  with  this  demon  that  was  bringing  so  many  promising  young 
men  suddenly  and  early  to  fill  drunkards’  graves.’  ” — The  Safeguard. 

WHO  IS  THE  CRIMINAL? 

A ragged,  shivering  little  boy  was  brought  before  a magistrate  for 
stealing  a loaf  of  bread  from  a grocer’s  window.  The  grocer  himself 
was  the  informer.  The  judge  was  about  to  pass  sentence  on  the  little 
wretch,  when  a kind  lawyer  offered  the  following  considerations  in 
mitigation  of  his  offence : 

“The  child  is  the  eldest  of  a miserable  group.  Their  mother  is  an 
incorrigible  sot;  their  father  lies  in  a drunkard’s  grave.  This  morning, 
when  the  act  was  committed,  the  mother  lay  drunk  upon  the  floor,  and 
her  children  were  crying  around  her  for  bread.  The  eldest  boy,  unable 
to  bear  such  misery  any  longer,  rushed  from  the  hovel,  resolved  to  obey 
that  paramount  law  of  nature  which  teaches  us  the  principle  of  self- 
preservation  even  in  disregard  to  the  law  of  the  land.  He  seized  the 
penny  loaf  from  the  grocer’s  window,  and,  returning  to  that  wretched 
home,  spread  the  unexpected  morsel  before  his  hungry  brothers,  and 
bade  them  eat  and  live.  He  did  not  eat  himself.  No;  consciousness  of 
the  crime  and  fears  of  detection  furnished  a more  engrossing  feeling 
than  that  of  hunger.  The  last  morsel  was  scarcely  swallowed  before 
the  officer  of  justice  entered  the  door.  The  little  thief  was  pointed  out 
by  the  grocer,  and  he  was  conducted  before  the  public  tribunal.  In  the 
midst  of  such  misery  as  this,  with  the  motive  of  this  little  criminal  before 
us,  there  is  something  to  soften  the  heart  of  man,  though  I deny  not  that 
the  act  is  a penal  offence. 

“But  the  tale  is  by  no  means  told.  This  little  circle,  now  utterly 
fallen  and  forlorn,  is  the  wreck  of  a family  once  prosperous,  temperate, 
frugal,  industrious,  and  happy.  The  father,  strange  as  it  may  appear, 
was  once  a professor  of  religion.  The  very  first  drop  of  that  accursed 
tincture  of  destruction  which  conducted  him  through  the  path  of  cor- 
ruption to  the  grave  was  handed  to  him  by  the  Very  grocer  who  now 


396 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


pursues  the  starving  child  of  his  former  victim  for  stealing  a penny  loaf. 
The  farm  became  encumbered ; the  community  turned  its  back  upon  the 
miserable  victim  of  intemperance ; the  church  expelled  him  from  the 
communion ; the  wife  sought  in  the  same  tremendous  remedy  for  all 
distracting  care  an  oblivion  of  her  domestic  misery.  Home  became  a 
hell,  whose  only  outlet  was  the  grave. 

“All  this  aggregate  of  human  wretchedness  was  produced  by  this 
very  grocer  who  sold  the  man  liquor.  He  has  murdered  the  father,  he 
has  brutalized  the  mother,  he  has  beggared  the  children,  he  has  taken 
possession  of  the  farm,  and  now  prosecutes  the  child  for  stealing  a loaf 
to  keep  his  brothers  from  starving! 

“But  all  this  is  lawful  and  right;  that  is,  it  is  according  to  law. 
He  had  stood  upon  his  license.  The  theft  of  a penny  loaf  by  a starving 
boy,  where  his  father  laid  down  his  last  farthing  for  rum,  is  a penal 
offence!” — ^The  Pioneer. 

WHOSE  FAULT. 

In  his  address  last  evening,  Mr.  Elwood  presented  to  his  audience 
the  scene  of  a little  boy  ten  years  old,  in  the  city  of  Wilmington,  Dela- 
ware, who  had  been  made  intoxicated  by  his  father,  then  taken  out  and 
laid  on  a lot  covered  with  gasoline  and  set  on  fire. 

“The  little  boy  was  burned,  and  seriously  burned,”  continued  Mr. 
Elwood,  “but  he  was  rescued  from  his  fiendish  father  who  was  himself 
drunk,  taken  to  the  hospital  and  cared  for  so  that  he  regained  part  of  his 
faculties,  although  he  was  maimed  for  life. 

“When  brought  to  the  court,  his  father  presented  the  excuse,  T was 
drunk,’  and  the  court  took  recognition  of  the  excuse  and  was  lenient 
with  him. 

“Whose  fault  was  it  that  the  boy  was  made  drunk?  The  father’s, 
we  might  say.  Whose  fault  was  it  that  the  father  was  drunk?  The 
father’s  own  fault,  we  might  say.  Whose  fault  was  it  that  the  father 
was  sold  drink  that  made  him  drunk?  The  saloonkeeper’s,  we  might  say. 
Whose  fault  was  it  that  the  saloonkeeper  sold  him  the  drink?  The 
legislature,  we  might  say.  Whose  fault  was  it  that  the  legislature 
granted  the  saloonkeeper  the  right  to  sell  drink?  The  people,  who  put 
the  legislature  into  operation,  we  might  say. 

“Therefore,  the  people  who  voted  for  the  legislature  that  made  the 


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397 


saloon  possible,  were  the  ones  who  were  to  blame  for  that  boy  being 
burned  nearly  to  death.” 

“I  am  not  here  to-night  to  denounce  any  one,  but  I am  here  to  state 
facts,  and  if  these  facts  should  hurt  any  one,  I trust  they  will  blame  the 
facts,  not  me. 

“The  man  who  drinks  in  this  age  is  a fool,  for  all  the  business 
activities  require  a clear  brain,  and  the  man  who  drinks  injures  his 
business  capabilities. 

“I  would  say  to  young  men,  especially,  ‘Leave  drink  alone  if  you 
want  to  be  successful  in  business.’  I would  say  to  young  women,  ‘Leave 
the  man  who  drinks  alone,  if  you  desire  a happy  married  life.’  I would 
say  to  the  young  men  also,  ‘Leave  alone  the  girl  who  drinks,  if  you 
would  have  a happy  home.’ 

“Drink  robs  more  homes  of  their  happiness  than  all  the  other  evils 
of  earth  put  together,” 

“Whenever  I see  a saloonkeeper,  I say,  ‘Poor  Fellow.’  I say  ‘poor’ 
because  his  business  puts  a social  line  about  him  that  prevents  him  from 
enjoying  the  clean,  the  pure  and  the  beautiful. 

“The  man  in  the  business  of  making  drunkards  is  more  to  be  pitied 
than  censured,  because  of  the  loss  of  true  living  that  he  suffers  in  this 
world  and  the  damnation  which  is  surely  his  in  the  next. 

“The  legislator  who  votes  to  license  the  liquor  iniquity  puts  a stain 
on  his  character,  sears  his  own  conscience,  and  opens  wide  the  door  of 
suspicion  that  there  is  money  in  it  for  him.  Very  few  men  in  the  state 
legislatures  to-day  vote  to  license  the  liquor  traffic  just  because  they 
believe  that  the  business  should  be  carried  on. 

“The  voter  who  goes  to  the  polls  to-day  has  a great  responsibility 
upon  him,  and  he  will  recognize  the  liquor  traffic  as  the  most  destructive 
agency  to  the  homes,  and  political  purity  will  not  only  vote  against  it, 
but  will  work  and  pray  and  give  until  the  day  dawns  when  the  saloons 
shall  have  flown  away,  and  we  shall  have  a land  where  the  law  makes  it 
impossible  for  men  to  rob  their  neighbors  through  the  evils  of  this 
beverage  traffic.” — ^Advance. 

HIS  MOTHER’S  CRUSADE. 

John  G.  Woolley  once  told  the  following;  “In  1874  I saw  my  mother 
kneeling  in  the  snow  to  pray  at  a saloon  door,  and  I crept  out  by  a side 


398 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


way,  stepping  softly  on  the  sawdust,  ashamed  of  her.  That  day’s  work 
cost  her  her  life,  but  the  saloon  did  not  even  pause,  and  her  only  child 
sped  downward  to  the  hell  of  darkness ; but  that  snow-set  prayer  per- 
sisted at  God’s  throne  through  thirteen  awful  years,  and  importunity  he 
could  but  always  hear  and  when  I ‘would’ He  spoke  to  me  and  speaks — 
and  will  speak  on  and  on  until  on  some  sweet  Christmas  eve,  I find 
my  mother’s  arm  again,  and  leaning  on  her  great  heart,  celebrate  the 
end  of  that  crusade.” — Selected. 

THE  TWIN  EVILS. 

The  California  Voice  has  for  some  time  been  turning  the  light  on 
the  “Red  Light”  sections  of  Los  Angeles,  and  showing  the  close  con- 
nection between  the  infamous  traffic  in  drink  and  the  no  less  infamous 
traffic  in  girls,  and’  so  vividly  has  this  been  done,  that  even  the  editors 
of  liquor  papers  express  themselves  as  shocked  at  the  revelation  of  the 
Voice,  and  the  way  they  express  themselves  in  the  columns  of  their 
papers  only  show  that  the  liquor  business  and  the  traffic  in  girls  are 
associated  evils  which  flourish  or  die  together. 

Here  is  how  the  Wholesale  and  Retailer’s  Review  gives  relief  to  its 
pent-up  feelings : 

“The  prohibitionists  are  trying  to  do  away  with  all  commerce  of  the 
‘red  light’  type — a misguided  fight.  We  agree  with  the  world’s  great 
scientists,  that  this  form  of  vice  should  be  under  strict  inspection,  pos- 
sibly under  license,  as  in  Paris.  This  is  the  way  to  protect  society.  But 
there  should  be  a way  to  protect  society  against  obscene  publication.” 

No  one  doubts  that  the  saloons  and  saloon  organs  would  like  to  see 
society  protected  against  all  prohibition  papers.  Alcoholic  drinks  and 
female  virtue  are  their  stock  in  trade. — Way  of  Faith. 

MORE  INSANE  SOLDIERS. 

Omaha,  Nebraska,  March  15. — A carload  of  maniacs  brought  in 
from  the  West  to-day  caused  commotion  at  the  Union  Station.  The 
men  were  United  States  soldiers  who  had  gone  insane  in  the  Philippines. 
All  were  absolutely  mad  and  violent.  All  wore  leg-irons  and  handcuffs. 
Some  were  in  straight  jackets  and  were  bound  to  isolated  parts  of  the 
car.  There  were  eighteen  in  all.  The  soldier  guards  were  stationed  at 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


399 


the  doors  with  clubbed  rifles.  As  the  train  pulled  into  the  station  there 
was  a confused  sound  as  of  a menagerie  approaching.  The  imprisoned 
men  were  chattering,  snarling,  growling,  moaning,  roaring  and  whining 
like  so  many  wild  beasts.  Each  seemed  to  imagine  himself  some  repre- 
sentative of  the  animal  kingdom,  and  the  result  was  terrifying  and  heart- 
rending. The  maniacs  are  being  taken  to  the  St.  Elizabeth  Hospital  at 
Washington.  The  blue-coated  maniacs  are  produced  by  the  drink  traffic 
which  the  government  perpetuates — the  government  for  whose  defense 
these  soldiers  gave  their  lives. — The  Searchlight. 

A TRAMP’S  SPEECH. 

A tramp  asked  for  a drink  in  a saloon.  The  request  was  granted,  and 
when  in  the  act  of  drinking  the  proffered  beverage,  one  of  the  young 
men  present  exclaimed: 

“Stop ! make  us  a speech.  It  is  poor  liquor  that  doesn’t  loosen  a 
man’s  tongue,”  says  the  “Prairie  Depot  Observer.”  The  tramp  hastily 
swallowed  down  the  drink,  and  as  the  rich  liquor  coursed  through  his 
blood,  he  straightened  himself  and  stood  before  them  with  a grace  and 
dignity  that  all  his  rags  and  dirt  could  not  obscure. 

“Gentlemen,”  he  said,  “I  look  to-night  at  you  and  myself,  and  it 
seems  to  me  that  I look  upon  the  picture  of  my  blighted  manhood.  This 
bloated  face  was  once  as  handsome  as  yours.  This  shambling  figure 
once  walked  as  proudly  as  yours,  for  I was  a man  of  the  world  of  men. 
I,  too,  once  had  a home  and  friends  and  position.  I had  a wife  as 
beautiful  as  an  artist’s  dream,  but  I dropped  the  priceless  pearl  of  her 
honor  and  respect  into  a cup  of  wine,  and  like  Cleopatra,  saw  it  dissolve, 
then  quaffed  it  down  in  the  brimming  draught.  I had  children,  sweet 
and  pure  as  the  flowers  of  spring,  and  saw  them  fade  away  and  die 
under  the  blighting  curse  of  a drunken  father.  I had  a home  where  love 
lit  its  flame  upon  the  altar  and  ministered  before  it,  but  I put  out  the 
holy  fire  and  darkness  and  desolation  reigned  in  its  stead.  I had 
aspiration  and  ambition  that  soared  as  high  as  the  morning  star,  but  I 
broke  and  bruised  those  beautiful  forms  and  strangled  them  that  I might 
hear  their  cries  no  more.  To-day  I am  a husband  without  a wife,  a 
father  without  a child,  a tramp  without  a home,  and  a man  in  whom 
every  good  impulse  is  dead.  And  all  has  been  swallowed  up  in  the 
maelstrom  of  drink.” 


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STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


The  tramp  ceased  speaking.  The  glass  fell  from  his  nervous  fingers, 
shattered  into  a thousand  fragments  on  the  floor.  The  doors  were 
pushed  open  and  shut  again,  and  when  the  group  looked  up,  the  tramp 
was  gone.  And  this,  gentle  reader,  is  a true  tale;  the  tramp  at  one 
time  having  been  a prominent  attorney  at  Tiffin,  Ohio. — Selected  by 
Herald  of  Light. 

A GOOD  INVESTMENT. 

John  and  James  were  twins,  fourteen  years  old.  Their  father  was 
very  wealthy.  On  every  birthday  they  expected  a rich  present  from  him. 
A week  before  they  were  fourteen,  they  were  talking  over  what  they 
most  wanted^ 

‘T  want  a pony,”  said  James. 

“And  what  do  you  want,  John?”  asked  his  father. 

“A  boy.” 

“A  boy!”  gasped  his  father. 

“Yes.  It  doesn’t  cost  much  more  to  keep  a boy  than  it  does  a 
horse,  does  it?” 

“Well,  no,”  replied  his  father,  still  very  much  surprised. 

“And  I can  get  a boy  for  nothing,  to  begin  with.” 

“Yes,”  replied  the  father,  hesitatingly,  “I  suppose  so.” 

“Why  papa,  I know  so.  There  are  lots  of  ’em  running  around  with- 
out any  home.” 

“Oh,  that’s  what  you  are  up  to,  is  it?  Want  to  take  a boy  in  and 
bring  him  up,  do  you?” 

“Yes,  sir;  it  would  be  a great  deal  better  than  the  Saint  Bernard 
dog  you  were  going  to  buy  me,  wouldn’t  it?  You  see,  my  bo}’^  could  go 
about  with  me,  play  with  me,  and  do  all  kinds  of  nice  things  for  me — 
and  I could  do  nice  things  for  him,  too,  couldn’t  I?  He  could  go  to 
school,  and  I could  help  him  with  his  examples  and  Latin.” 

“Examples  and  Latin?  God  bless  the  boy,  what  is  he  aiming  at?” 
and  Judge  Roding  wiped  the  sweat  from  his  bald  head. 

“I  know,”  laughed  James.  “He  wants  to  adopt  old  drunken  Pete  s 
son.” 

“Yes,  papa,  ’cause  he  is  running  about  the  streets  as  dirty  and 
ragged  as  he  can  be,  and  he’s  a splendid  boy,  father.  He’s  just  as  smart 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


401 


as  he  can  be,  only  he  can’t  go  to  school  half  the  time,  ’cause  he  hasn’t 
anything  d-ecent  to  wear.” 

“How  long  do  you  want  to  keep  him  ?” 

“Until  he  gets  to  be  a man,  father.” 

“And  turn  out  such  a man  as  old  Pete?” 

“No  danger  of  that,  father.  He  has  signed  the  pledge  not  to  drink 
intoxicants,  nor  swear,  nor  smoke,  and  he  has  helped  me,  father,  for 
when  I have  wanted  to  do  such  things,  he  told  me  his  father  was  once 
a rich  man’s  son,  and  just  as  promising  as  James  and  I.” 

“Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  ever  feel  like  doing  such  things 
as  drinking,  swearing,  smoking,  and  loafing?”  asked  his  father,  sternly. 

“Why,  papa,  you  don’t  know  half  the  temptations  boys  have  nowa- 
days. Why,  boys  of  our  set  swear  and  smoke  and  drink  right  along 
when  nobody  sees  them.  I am  trying  to  surrender  all — every  vice,  every 
bad  habit.  I don’t  see  how  I could  enjoy  a dog  or  a pony,  when  I know 
a nice  boy  suffering  for  some  of  the  good  things  I enjoy.” 

“You  may  have  the  boy,  John,  and  may  God  bless  the  gift !” — Pure 
Words. 

HAND  OVER  THE  REINS. 

A lady  once  called  Henry  Drummond  in  to  speak  to  her  coachman, 
who  had  given  way  to  drink,  and  he  said  he  did  not  like  to  be  called  in 
like  this,  to  be  asked  to  argue  with  people  of  a sudden  and  try  to  cure 
their  souls,  but  he  felt  it  was  case  demanding  Christian  intervention,  so 
he  plucked  up  his  courage  and  went  out  to  talk  to  the  man.  And  he 
put  the  problem  to  him,  “Suppose  you  were  on  the  box  and  yx)ur  horses 
ran  away  downhill,  and  you  lost  all  control  of  them ; what  would  you 
do?”  “Oh,”  said  the  man,  “I  could  do  nothing.”  “Yes,”  said  Drum- 
mond, “but  suppose  there  was  some  one  sitting  by  your  side  stronger 
than  you,  who  could  control  them,  what  would  you  do?”  “Oh,”  he 
said,  “I  would  hand  him  the  reins,  sir.”  “Ah,”  said  Drummond,  “your 
life  has  run  away  with  you,  your  appetites  and  passions  and  lusts  are 
carrying  you  downhill,  and  you  in  your  strength  cannot  control  your 
life.  But,”  he  said,  “believe  me,  there  is  One  at  your  side  stronger  than 
you,  who  offers  to  take  control  of  your  life  and  make  it  what  it  should 
be.  What  will  you  do?”  And  the  man  saw  the  point  and  said,  “Sir,  I 
will  give  Him  the  reins.” — Selected  by  Sent  of  God. 


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STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


HURRYING  HELLWARD. 

A young  man,  who  held  a very  important  and  paying  position  in  the 
government  employ,  said  he  thought  it  stupid  to  be  a total  abstainer.  He 
said : “I  don’t  see  why  a man  can  not  make  himself  a definite  allowance. 
I am  going  to  alter  my  system,  and  take  just  one  glass  a day  and  no 
more.” 

“Well,”  said  his  friend,  “you  are  perfectly  well  without  it.” 

“Oh,  yes ; I am  very  well  in  health.” 

“Then  why  not  let  it  alone?” 

“One  glass  a day  won’t  hurt.” 

“But  you  are  a great  deal  better  without  it.” 

“Well,  I don’t  know;  I shall  just  try  one  glass  a day  and  keep  to  it.” 

This  was  a young^man  of  considerable  self-control,  and  for  one  year 
he  did  keep  to  a glass  of  drink  a day.  Then  he  said : “I  think  it  is 
foolish  for  a man  to  lay  down  any  hard  and  fast  lines  for  himself.  A 
man  ought  to  be  able  to  take  as  much  as  is  good  for  him,  and  as  little 
as  is  good  for  him.  I will  restrict  myself  to  what  my  system  needs.” 

Six  months  later,  that  same  young  man  was  picked  up  helplessly 
drunk  in  the  streets.  He  was  forgiven  the  first  offence,  as  he  had  pre- 
viously borne  a good  character,  but  he  fell  again  and  again,  and  soon 
was  dismissed  from  the  government  employ,  and  became  an  outcast 
from  society.  He  then  plunged  downward  in  dissipation,  and  delirium 
tremens  hurried  him  to  hell. — C,  W.  Sherman  in  Way  of  Faith. 

ALCOHOLISM  IN  CHILDREN. 

“Alcoholism  from  nursing  is  a well-demonstrated  clinical  fact.  The 
alcohol  passes  into  the  mother’s  milk,  and  numbers  of  cases  of  illness 
and  convulsions  among  young  children  have  no  other  cause  than  the 
sometimes  unconscious  alcoholism  of  the  nurse. 

“In  a school  where  the  children  were  from  four  to  six  years  of  age, 
the  teacher,  giving  a lesson  on  coffee,  asked  this  question : 

“ ‘What  do  you  put  in  coffee  ?’ 

“ ‘Sugar,’  answered  several  children. 

“ ‘Brandy,’  said  others. 

“ ‘Children,’  said  the  teacher,  ‘brandy  ought  not  to  be  put  into  coffee.’ 

“‘I  don’t  put  mine  into  the  coffee,’  spoke  up  a little  tot;  ‘I  do  like 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


403 


mamma  and  papa;  I drink  it  alone  in  my  cup,  after  I have  finished  my 
coffee,’ 

“Then  the  teacher  asked,  ‘Are  there  other  children  here  who  drink 
their  brandy  in  their  cups  ?’ 

“Five  little  hands  were  raised.  And  that  was  the  usual  proportion. 

“Alcohol,  in  the  form  of  brandied  fruit,  bon-bons  containing  liquors, 
or  rum-soaked  cake,  should  never  be  given  to  children. 

“We  may  often  observe  in  nursing  children,  nervous  troubles  akin 
to  meningitis,  and  having  no  other  cause  than  alcoholic  intoxication. 
But  they  may  also  manifest  acute  alcoholism  in  the  form  of  actual 
drunkenness. 

“Alcohol  acts,  then,  in  different  ways  with  children.  If  the  child  is 
congenitally  tainted  by  the  poison,  it  may  present  a type  of  degeneracy 
. that  is  in  some  degree  due  to  the  alcoholic  poisoning  of  its  ancestors. 
Alcohol  can  also  lead  to  troubles  that  are  more  especially  attributable  to 
its  hereditary  influence,  such  as  certain  obsessions,  night  terrors ; and 
particularly  dipsomania.  Finally,  alcoholism  in  the  parent  gives  rise 
to  a disposition  to  the  same  troubles  in  the  children,” — Translation  made 
for  the  Literary  Digest. 

SAVED  BY  A KIND  WORD. 

He  had  lost  all  respectability  and  was  a common  gutter  drunkard. 
His  family  xiad'  disowned  him,  and  would  not  recognize  him  when  they 
met.  Occasionally  he  would  get  a job  at  the  stables  where  Dr.  Davis 
^ kept  his  horses.  One  morning  the  doctor  laid  his  hand  on  his  shoulders 
and  said : “Jim,  I wish  you  would  give  up  the  drink.” 

There  was  something  like  a quiver  on  his  lips  as  he  answered  : 

I “If  I thought  you  cared,  I would,  but  there  is  a gulf  between  you 
and  me.” 

“Have  I made  any  gulf,  Jim?” 

“No,  you — haven’t.” 

“If  you  had  been  a millionare,  could  I have  treated  you  more  like  a 
gentleman  ?” 

, “No,  you  couldn’t.” 

“I  do  care,  Jim.” 

, There  were  tears  in  the  eyes  of  the  man  now.  “I  do  care,  Jim,” 
I with  tender,  little  emphasis  on  the  “Jim.” 


404 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


“Dr.  Davis,  I’ll  never  touch  another  drop  of  liquor  as  long  as  I 
live ; here’s  my  hand  on  it.” 

This  was  fifteen  years  ago,  and  Jim  is  to-day  a respectable  and 
respected  man,  and  an  earnest  Christian — saved  by  a kind  word. — Scot- 
tish Reformer. 

QUAKER’S  TEMPERANCE  LECTURE. 

Several  persons,  among  them  a Quaker,  were  crossing  the  Alleghany 
mountains  in  a stage. 

A lively  discussion  arose  on  the  subject  of  temperance  and  the  liquor 
business,  and  those  engaged  in  it  were  handled  without  gloves. 

One  of  the  company  remained  silent.  After  enduring  it  as  long  as  he 
could,  he  said : 

“Gentlemen,  I want  you  to  understand  that  I am  a liquor  dealer. 

I keep  a public  house  of ; but  I would  have  you  to  know  that  I have 

a license,  and  keep  a decent  house. 

“I  don’t  keep  loafers  and  loungers  about  my  place,  and  when  a man 
has  enough,  he  can  get  no  more  at  my  bar. 

“I  sell  to  decent  people,  and  dt)  a respectable  business.” 

He  thought  he  had  put  a quietus  on  the  subject,  and  that  no  answer 
could  be  given.  Not  so.  The  Quaker  said: 

“Friend,  that  is  the  most  damnable  part  of  thy  business.  If  thee 
would  sell  to  drunkards  and  loafers,  thee  would  help  to  kill  off  the  race, 
and  society  would  be  rid  of  them. 

“But  thee  takes  the  young,  the  poor,  the  innocent  and  the  unsus- 
pecting, making  drunkards  and  loafers  of  them. 

“When  their  character  and  'money  are  all  gone,  thee  kicks  them  out, 
and  ■ turns  them  over  to  other  shops  to  finish  off ; arui  thee  ensnares 
others  and  sends  them  on  the  same  road  to  ruin.” — Selected  by  Way  of 
Faith. 


H CASTOR  OIL  TREAT. 

Mr.  Perry  was  an  old  Southern  gentleman,  exceedingly  polite.  He 
would  go  out  of  his  way  at  any  time  to  avoid  offending  a neighbor  or  a 
friend.  One  day,  a neighbor  met  him  on  the  street  with  “Halloo,  Mi. 
Perry ; I was  just  going  in  to  get  a drink.  Come  in,  and'  take  something.” 
“Thank  you,  Mr. , I don’t  care  for  anything,”  was  the  answer. 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


405 


“But  come  in  and  take  something,  just  for  sociability’s’  sake.” 

“Now,  I want  to  be  sociable;  but  I can’t  drink  with  you.” 

“All  right,  if  you  don’t  want  to  be  sociable.  I’ll  go  without  drinking,” 
growled  the  friend,  and  he  silently  walked  along  in  the  direction  in  which 
Mr.  Perry  was  traveling. 

Presently  the  pair  drew  near  a drug  store,  when  Mr.  Perry  broke 

out  with  “Mr. , I’m  not  feeling  at  all  well  to-day,  and  I think  I’ll  go 

in  this  drug  store  and  get  some  castor  oil.  Won’t  you  join  me?” 

“What?  a dose  of  castor  oil?” 

“Yes.” 

“Naw;  I hate  the  stuff,”  saying,  while  a chill  went  over  the  man  as 
visible  in  its  effects  to  Mr.  Perry  as  if  the  ague  had  seized  him  on  the 
street. 

“But  I want  you  to  take  a glass  of  oil  with  me  just  to  be  sociable, 
you  know.” 

The  friend  still  refused,  when  Mr.  Perry  said : 

“Your  sociable  whiskey  is  just  as  distasteful  to  me  as  my  sociable 
castor  oil.” — Selected  by  Way  of  Faith. 

A YOUNG  BUSINESS  MAN’S  REFORMATION. 

“He  drinks.  We  do  not  want  him.”  That  was  all,  but  it  meant  that 
a certain  capable  young  man  had  lost  a valuable  business  opportunity 
with  a fine  Ohio  firm.  His  acknowledged  capacities  were  vain,  so  soon 
as  it  was  known  that  he  was  a wine-taker.  The  keen  partners  of  the 
firm  decided  that  he  would  be  an  unsafe,  untrustworthy  person. 

He  drank  quietly  at  home.  Bought  his  liquor  in  cases.  Was  never 
seen  to  enter  a saloon  door,  or  to  be  intoxicated.  But  while  his  judgment 
was  under  the  influence  of  the  home  potations,  he  made  a very  foolish 
business  deal  that  caused  him  great  financial  loss,  which  it  will  take  him 
a long  time  to  retrieve.  When  he  realized  his  silly  mistake,  he  cleared 
the  liquor  from  his  cellar,  and  to  his  family  declared  he  was  forever 
through  with  alcohol.  He  is  a man  who  will  keep  his  word. — The  Tem- 
perance Tribune. 

AN  ILL-FATED  SLEIGHRIDE. 

Where  the  snow  had  fallen  so  deeply  that  a bob-sled'  ride  would 
be  a youthful  pleasure,  four  young  men  asked  four  young  ladies  to 


406 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


enjoy  with  them  an  evening  sleighride.  After  a merry  jingle  about  the 
country,  the  party  came  to  a village,  where  an  oyster  supper  was  ordered. 
Excusing  themselves,  three  of  the  young  men  went  from  the  restaurant 
to  an  adjacent  hotel,  and  drank  whisky.  They  did  not  return  promptly, 
and  lingered  over  their  evil  cups.  The  hour  became  late,  and  the 
restaurant-keeper  wished  to  close  his  establishment,  and  he  and  the 
sober  young  man  made  two  trips  to  the  hotel  before  they  could  win  the 
drinkers  to  return  with  them. 

In  the  meantime,  the  young  ladies,  surprised,  indignant  and  hurt, 
had  started  home  over  the  snow  afoot.  It  was  two  miles  to  the  nearest 
home,  four  or  more  miles  to  the  residence  of  the  one  who  lived  furthest 
away.  All  agreed  to  stop  over  night  at  the  nearest  home,  as  no  young 
lady  had  the  hardihood  or  strength  to  walk  four  miles  at  winter  mid- 
night. They  were  discovered  a few  rods  on  the  way  and  called  back 
by  the  repentant  escorts,  who  at  heart  were  kindly  young  men,  but 
liquor-infatuated,  it  seemed.  The  young  ladies  were  taken  safely  to  their 
homes,  and  suffered  no  indignation  on  the  way,  as  alarm  had  sobered  the 
escorts.  The  young  men  humbly  entreated  pardon.  The  girls  kept 
silence;  but  two  of  them  alighted  from  the  bob-sled  when  they  reached 
home,  utterly  refusing  to  be  aided,  or  to  touch  the  hands  of  the  young 
men  who  had  been  drinking.  There  was  a lasting  break-up  in  the  friend- 
ship of  that  company.  The  drinking  young  men  were  ostracized,  for  no 
reputable  girl  who  learned  the  story  would  trust  herself  to  the  miserable 
companionship  of  these  incipient  drunkards. — ^The  Temperance  Tribune. 

THE  LAWYER’S  LESSON. 

The  father  was  a lawyer.  He  kept  wine  in  the  house.  His  young 
son,  a bright  lad,  had  been  forbidden  to  taste  the  dangerous  stuff,  and  it 
was  kept  out  of  sight,  except  when  brought  forth  to  treat  the  father’s 
friends.  Several  called  at  the  house  one  evening  on  legal  business,  wish- 
ing to  hurry  in  a consultation.  A bottle  of  wdne  was  ^Dpened,  and  after 
the  talk,  there  was  the  sound  of  clinking  glasses  and  a gala  draught. 
Then  the  gentlemen  left  the  apartment,  and  the  lad,  who  had  been  in  an 
adjoining  room,  entered,  spied  the  bottle  high  upon  a shelf,  clambered 
to  the  back  of  a chair,  helped  himself  to  a generous  drink,  and  made  an 
unsteady  descent.  When  discovered,  he  was  stupified — drunk,  lying 
upon  the  floor  under  a table,  whither  he  had  crawled  with  an  instinctive 
desire  to  conceal  himself  before  sleeping  his  drunken  sleep.  At  nine 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


407 


o’clock  the  mother  returned  home  from  a chat  at  a neighbor’s.  Directly 
her  lawyer  husband  also  came,  after  a trip  to  his  office,  where  he  had 
consulted  certain  authorities  on  the  knotty  case  which  confronted  him. 
Together  they  searched  for  their  little  son,  finding  him  at  last  on  the 
carpet,  under  the  shadows  of  a table-spread  which  hung  low  over  the 
sides  of  the  table.  They  drew  him  forth,  saw  the  flushed  face,  heard  the 
heavy  breathing,  smelled  the  alcoholic  breath  of  the  eight-year-old  lad. 
With  tears  they  vowed  theirs  should  be  a temperance  hearth  henceforth. 
And  it  i-s ! That  lawyer  is  “dry,”  his  lesson  well  learned ; his  boy  safe 
from  further  temptation.  The  sharp  lash  of  conscience,  and  a heart  of 
love,  amde  that  home  citadel  a temperance  fortress. — The  Temperance 
Tribune. 

THE  BARTENDER’S  REFORMATION. 

He  was  a bartender,  aged  only  twenty-one.  It  was  a temporary 
job,  accepted  to  assist  him  in  pursuing  a certain  course  of  study,  for 
which  he  had  not  the  means.  The  hotel  needed  (?)  a young  man  of  good 
address  and  of  pleasant  ways.  So  he  was  offered  the  bartender’s  chance 
and  took  it.  One  night  there  was  a dance  in  the  big  ball-room  of  the 
hotel,  and  in  the  intervals  of  the  dancing  a number  of  young  men, 
friends  of  the  young  bartender,  would  slip  away  from  the  scene  of  social 
festivity  and  reinforce  their  strength  (as  they  supposed)  at  the  bar. 
Finally  the  tide  from  upstairs  became  heavier,  and  the  rude  effects  of 
alcohol  began  to  be  apparent. 

He  who  dispensed  the  drink. 

Began  to  think. 

In  utter  disgust  at  the  harm  that  was  being  wrought,  the  rest  of  the 
night  he  added  water  to  the  liquor,  keeping  this  mixing  a secret  for  the 
time  being.  The  next  day  he  resigned  his  postion  and  told  the  reason, 
frankly  declaring  that  he  was  a temperance  convert.  Then  he  eloquently 
appealed  to  his  young  friends  who  had  patronized  the  bar.  He  described 
how  maudlin  and  boisterous  they  became,  how  unfit  to  accompany  your 
ladies  to  the  safe  shelter  of  their  homes.  He  proved  influential,  a 
helped  some  to  the  straight,  temperance  path  of  decency.  This  ■* 
porary  barkeeper  will  never  again  “touch,  taste  or  handle”  intoxica’" 

The  Temperance  Tribune, 


408 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


WHY  HE  REFUSED. 

A man  who  lately  came  over  from  America  told  the  writer  that  on 
board  the  steamer  one  of  the  passengers  went  up  to  another  in  the 
smoking-room  and  asked  him  to  have  a drink  with  him.  The  man  thus 
invited  continued  reading  a newspaper  and  made  no  reply.  The  other 
man  again  asked  him  to  drink  with  him.  No  answer  given.  A third 
invitation  was  then  given  in  these  words : 

“Sir,  I have  asked  you  in  as  friendly  a way  as  possible,  to  drink 
with  me,  and  each  time  you  went  on  with  your  reading,  and  had  not  the 
civility  to  answer  me.  Now  I ask  you  for  the  third  time  if  you  will 
drink  wine,  whisky,  or  anything  else  with  me.” 

The  man  then  put  aside  his  paper  and  answered  quietly: 

“Do  you  see  that  glass,  sir?  Well,  if  I were  to  take  even  a quarter 
of  it,  I could  not  leave  off  until  I had  drank  all  the  liquor  on  board.  This 
is  why  I would  not  drink  with  you.” 

All  present  admired  the  man’s  self-control,  and  learned  a striking 
lesson  on  the  danger  of  putting  temptation  in  a brother’s  way. — The 
Quiver. 

THE  ELEPHANT  AND  PYTHON. 

Dr.  Louis  Albert  Banks  tell  the  following  story,  which  has  a most 
important  lesson,  especially  for  young  people : 

“About  six  months  ago  a baby  elephant  was  brought  over  from 
Burmah  and  made  a summer  tour,  extending  into  the  late  autumn,  with 
a traveling  show.  Then  it  was  sent  to  the  Brooklyn  boarding  house  to 
spend  the  winter.  The  elephant  took  a bad  cold,  and  the  landlord  dosed 
him  with  whisky  and  quinine  from  a demijohn.  The  elephant  did  not 
like  the  liquor  at  first,  but  soon  acquired  the  habit,  and  the  other  night, 
feeling  thirsty,  he  knocked  the  head  off  the  demijohn,  which  had  been  left 
in  his  quarters,  and  sucked  out  all  there  was  left. 

There  was  not  enough  to  make  him  “dead”  drunk,  but  just  enough 
0 make  him  feel  big,  and  want  to  break  something  and  have  a great 
Tie.  In  his  hilarity  he  overturned  a glass-covered  case  in  which  a 
nty-foot  python  was  asleep.  The  big  snake  was  angr}'-  when  he 
up,  and  with  a vicious  sparkle  in  his  little  eyes,  he  went  for  that 
“■t  and  coiled  himself  around  its  body. 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


409 


As  the  coils  grew  tense  about  the  elephant,  it  trumpeted  in  agony, 
and  struggled  to  shake  the  python  off,  but  the  snake  had  neither  mercy 
nor  fear. 

The  boardinghouse  keeper  was  awakened  by  the  noise  and  rushed 
into  the  room,  club  in  hand.  He  saw  the  peril  of  the  elephant,  and  when 
the  snake  raised  its  head  angrily  at  the  intrusion,  he  hit  it  a savage 
blow.  The  coils  loosened  and  the  python  fell  to  the  floor.  The  elephant 
gasped  and  fell  likewise.  Its  ribs  had  been  crushed'  in,  and  in  half  an 
hour  it  was  dead.  The  snake  was  put  back  into  its  box,  but  an  hour 
later  it  was  dead  also. 

The  empty  demijohn  in  the  corner  told  the  cause  of  the  tragedy.” 

BOY  WANTED. 

A bright,  wide-awake  boy,  one  that  is  the  sunshine  of  the  home,  his 
father’s  and  mother’s  joy. 

He  must  be  naturally  quite  active  and  genial.  There  is  a demand 
for  many  boys  of  this  kind — one  hundred  thousand  of  them  are  wanted 
every  year. 

Who  wants  them? 

Satan. 

What  does  he  want  them  for? 

How  does  he  get  them? 

Through  the  two  hundred  and  forty  thousand  legalized  saloons 
whose  doors  are  open  day  and  night. 

Who  gives  these  saloons  the  right  to  run? 

The  government. 

What  is  the  government? 

The  people. 

Who  is  responsible  for  all  the  evil  that  is  done  through  the  saloons  ? 

Every  man  who  votes  wrong,  and  every  man  who  doesn’t  vote,  that 
can  vote. 

Eight  hundred  thousand  boys  and  girls  have  gone  to  drunkard’s 
graves  since  McKinley  was  first  elected  president. 

What  is  the  church  doing  to  stop  this  evil? 

She  is  sending  her  preachers  to  the  conferences  to  pass  resolutions 
against  the  liquor  traffic,  then  voting  against  the  resolutions  which  they 
pass. 


410 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


Who  destroyed  that  happy  home,  blighted  the  fondest  hopes,  and  i 
blotted  out  the  young  life  of  that  devoted  wife  and  affectionate  mother? 
The  skeleton  figure  of  that  silent  form  points  to  the  saloons  as  the  place 
where  the  man  became  the  fiend  and  the  rumseller  the  guilty  party. 
But  the  saloonkeeper  is  not  wholly  to  blame — the  people  who  vote  for  | 
license  'have  a share  in  it.  j 

The  state  of  New  York  has  a public  drinking  place  over  410  miles  j 
long;  the  same  state  has  26,678  licensed  bars.  These  saloons  belong  to  i 
the  government  and  the  people  vote  for  them  and  seem  to  think  it  is  all  j 
right.  - ] 

“Woe  unto  him  that  giveth  his  neighbor  drink,  that  putteth  the 
bottle  to  him  and  maketh  him  drunken  also.”  Hab.  2:15. — ^Winship 
Siders  in  Herald  of  Light. 

A STRONG  ARGUMENT. 

The  following  card,  made  like  a blotter,  signed  by  a dozen  gro- 
cery firms  of  Delaware,  Ohio,  has  been  scattered  by  the  thousands,  and 
has  proved  very  effective  in  a campaign  which,  writes  Dr.  C.  W.  Barnes, 

“is  moving  splendidly” : 

“Anyone  who  drinks  three  glasses  of  whiskey  a day  for  one  jmar  and 
pays  ten  cents  a drink  for  it,  can  have  in  exchange  at  any  of  the  firms 
whose  names  appear  on  this  card  3 barrels  flour,  20  bushels  potatoes, 

200  pounds  granulated  sugar,  1 barrel  crackers,  1 pound  pepper,  2 pounds 
tea,  50  pounds  salt,  20  pounds  rice,  50  pounds  butter,  10  pounds  cheese, 

25  pounds  coffee,  10  pounds  candy,  3 dozen  cans  tomatoes,  10  dozen  dill 
pickles,  10  dozen  oranges,  10  dozen  bananas,  2 dozen  cans  corn,  18  boxes 
matches,  half  a bushel  beans,  100  cakes  soap,  and  12  packages  rolled 
oats,  for  the  same  money,  and  gets  $15.30  premium  for  making  the  change 
in  his  expenditures.” — Western  Christian  Advocate. 

A LITTLE  INDULGENCE,  AND  WHAT  CAME  OF  IT. 

A very  marked  and  painful  instance  of  the  effects  of  a bad  example 
occurred  recently  in  the  vicinity  of  Boston.  A gentleman  of  high  social 
position,  a member  of  an  Evangelical  church,  and  the  father  of  an 
interesting  family — one  rvhose  life  was  closely  watched,  and  errors  as 
well  as  virtues  were  sure  to  be  imitated — gave  a large  party.  It  was 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


411 


on  the  occasion  of  the  twenty-fifth  anniversary  of  his  marriage.  The 
Company  was  very  select,  consisting  in  most  part  of  clergymen  of  his 
own  denomination,  and  the  leading  literary  and  business  men  of  his 
acquaintance,  and  their  families,  nearly  all  being  professed  Christians. 

At  the  bountiful  supper  which  was  provided,  conspicuous  among 
the  articles  of  luxury  on  the  tables  appeared  a goodly  supply  of  wine. 
It  might  charitably  have  been  supposed  that  the  host  was  merely 
weakly  catering  to  the  demands  of  the  fashion,  that  his  wine  should 
have  been  untouched,  and  that  he  would  receive  gentle  rebukes  from 
more  than  one  person'  present.  But  no ! Four  doctors  of  divinity  were 
among  the  first  to  raise  their  cups.  The  example  was  infectious.  Some 
drank  who  never  drank  before,  and  all  followed  like  a flock  of  sheep, 
seeming  to  have  the  feeling  (which  appears  to  be  not  uncommon)  that 
it  is  possible  for  society  to  be  above  the  observance  of  the  lesser  morals. 

One  gentleman  looked  upon  the  scene  with  evident  surprise  for 
some  time,  then  he  seemed  to  hesitate,  and  finally  drank  more  than  all 
the  rest.  He  went  home  and  drank  again  that  night,  and  again  the 
next  day,  and  the  next.  In  a week  he  was  a ditch  drunkard,  and,  in  a 
month  he  was  discharged  from  the  church  of  which  he  had  been  a 
consistent  and  valued  member  for  seven  years  He  had  been  accus- 
tomed in  early  life  to  habits  of  dissipation,  and  that  single  evening’s 
experience  was  sufficient  to  burst  the  old  temptation  upon  him  with 
overwhelming  force.  Christian  duty,  home,  manliness,  and  all  that  he 
was  or  ever  hoped  to  be,  were  swallowed  up  in  that  one  low  passion. 
The  example  of  his  own  pastor  had  ruined  him. 

What  say  our  defenders  among  the  churches  of  moderate  drinking? 
Is  no  one  responsible  for  such  a case  as  this?  Does  not  the  Bible  say 
something  about  him  “who  putteth  the  cup  to  his  neighbor’s  lips?”  In 
this  instance,  results  are  clearly  traceable,  but  who  will  dare  to  say 
how  often  as  terrible  consequences  follow  when  nothing  is  said,  and 
little  is  publicly  known  of  them? — Selected  by  Church  Advocate. 

THE  LAST  WORDS  OF  A DRUNKARD. 

The  following  extracts  were  taken  from  one  of  the  lectures  of  J.  J. 
Talbot,  who  died  from  the  effects  of  a drunken  debauch  at  Elkhart,  Ind. : 

“But  now  the  struggle  is  over.  I can  survey  the  field  and  measure 
the  losses.  I had  position  high  and  holy.  The  demon  tore  from  around 


412 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


me  the  robes  of  my  sacred  office  and  sent  me  out,  churchless  and  God- 
less, a very  hissing  and  by-word  among  men.  Afterward  I had  a business 
large  and  lucrative,  and  my  voice  was  heard  in  large  courts,  pleading 
for  justice,  mercy  and  right.  But  the  dust  gathered  on  my  books,  and 
no  footfalls  crossed  the  threshold  of  the  drunkard’s  office.  I had  money 
ample  for  all  necessities,  but  it  took  wings,  and  went  to  feed  the  coffers 
of  the  devils  which  possessed  me.  I had  a home,  formed  with  all  that 
wealth  and  the  most  exquisite  taste  could  buy.  The  devil  crossed  the 
threshold,  and  the  light  faded  from  its  chambers ; the  fire  went  out  on 
the  holiest  of  altars,  and  leading  me  from  the  portals,  despair  walked 
forth  with  me,  and  sorrow  and  anguish  lingered  within.  I had  children — 
beautiful  to  me,  at  least,  as  a dream  of  the  morning — and  they  had  so 
entwined  themselves  around  their  father’s  heart,  that  no  matter  where 
it  might  wander,  ever  it  came  back  to  them  on  the  wings  of  a father’s 
undying  love.  The  destroyer  took  his  hand  in  his  and  led  them  away. 
I had  a wife,  whose  charms  of  mind  and  person  were  such  that  to  see 
her  was  to  remember,  and  to  know  her  was  to  love  her.  Thirteen  years 
we  walked  the  ragged  path  of  life  together,  rejoicing  in  its  sunshine  and 
sorrowing  in  its  shade.  The  infernal  monster  would  not  even  spare  me 
this. 

“I  had  a mother  who  for  long  years  had  not  left  her  chair,  a victim 
of  suffering  and  disease.  Her  choicest  delight  was  reflecting  that  the 
lessons  taught  at  her  knee  had  taken  root  in  the  heart  of  her  youngest 
born,  and  that  he  was  useful  to  his  fellows,  and  an  honor  to  her  who 
bore  him.  But  the  thunderbolt  even  reached  there,  and  did  its  most 
cruel  work.  Other  days  may  cure  all  but  this.  Ah,  me ! never  a reproach 
from  these  lips ; only  a shadow  of  unspoken  grief  gathered  on  her  dear 
old  face ; only  a tender  hand  laid  more  lovingly  upon  my  head ; only  a 
closer  clinging  to  the  cross ; only  a piteous  appeal  to  heaven  if  her  cup 
were  not  at  last  full.  And  while  her  boy  raged  in  his  wild  delirium 
two  thousand  miles  away,  the  pitying  angels  pushed  the  golden  gates 
ajar,  and  the  mother  of  the  drunkard  entered  into  rest. 

“And  thus  I stand,  a clergyman  without  a church,  a barrister  with- 
out a brief  or  business,  a father  without  a child,  a husband  without  a 
wife,  a son  without  a parent,  a man  without  hope — all  swallowed  up  in  a 
maelstrom  of  drink.” — Way  of  Faith. 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


413 


THE  BEGINNING  AND  THE  END. 

“What  harm  can  there  be  in  a moderate  social  glass  of  wine?” 

This  is  a question  young  men  often  ask. 

Remember  that  “at  the  last  it  biteth  like  a serpent,  and  stingeth  like 
an  adder.” 

If  the  sting  came  at  the  beginning  of  the  indulgence,  few  would  be 
Jed  astray.  But  the  pleasure  comes  at  the  first,  and  the  sting  at  the 
last,  and  herein  lies  the  danger  of  drinking  wine  or  strong  drink. 

At  first  it  sparkles  and  cheers. 

At  last  it  poisons  and  maddens. 

At  first  it  excites  mirth  and  song. 

At  last  it  produces  sorrow  and  curses. 

At  first  it  may  appear  to  quicken  the  intellect  to  unwonted  activity, 
and  impart  a captivating  brilliancy  to  the  conversation. 

At  last  it  emasculates  the  mind  of  every  element  of  strength,  and 
degrades  the  conversation  to  the  merest  stammering  or  idiotic  gibbering. 

At  first  it  stimulates  the  body  to  unnatural  vigor. 

. At  last  it  breaks  down  the  strongest  frame,  and  sends  weakness  into 
the  limbs  and  trembling  into  the  flesh. 

At  first  there  may  be  health  enough  to  resist  the  pernicious  ten- 
dency of  intoxication,  so  that  with  all  the  pleasures  there  are  few  of  the 
pains  of  indulgence. 

At  last  drinkers  become  victims  of  manifold,  loathsome,  and  dis- 
tressing diseases. 

At  first  it  is  a cup  of  exhilaration  in  the  hands  of  thoughtless  youth. 

At  last  it  is  a “cup  of  fearful  trembling  in  the  hand  of  an  offended 
Deity.” — Temperance  Record. 

THE  SALOONKEEPER. 

Does  salvation  really  save? 

How  often  does  one  hear  men  and  women  make  excuses,  attempt 
extenuations  of  their  actions  in  remaining  unsaved,  on  the  ground  that 
their  circumstances,  their  environments  or  their  avocations  forbid  it ! 
Especially  is  this  true  of  business  men,  who  more  than  any  other  class 
of  men  seem  to  think  that  the  saving  power  of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ 
is  limitable  to  certain  conditions  only. 


414 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


“I  would  be  a Christian,”  says  one,  “b-ut  I never  could  be  content  to 
be  anything  less  than  a thorough  out-andj-outer,  and  in  my  business 
that’s  impossible.” 

And  the  curious  part  of  it  is  that  ever  so  many  of  those  that  offer 
such  excuses  are  perfectly  honest — as  sincere  in  their  aspirations,  per- 
haps, as  they  are  dense  in  their  stupidity.  To  get  saved  first,  to  really 
give  God  his  opportunity,  and  then  see  what  he  will  make  of  it  in  suiting 
their  strength  to  their  needs,  is  what  seems  never  to  enter  their  mind. 

And  yet  there  is  hardly  a business  man  but  knows  some  instance  in 
which  God  has  saved  a man  and  then  marvelously  adjivsted  all  the  man’s 
business  conditions  to  his  salvation — not  his  salvation  to  his  business 
conditions. 

Look  at  that  Western  saloonkeeper!  A better  fellow,  according  to 
the  dictum  of  all  the  “boys”  in  his  town,  couldn’t  be  found  alive ; honest, 
straightforward,  good-natured  and  generous  I Why,  there  w'asn’t  a 
kindlier  fellow  in  the  world  when  it  came  to  “setting  ’em  up”  for  the 
crowd,  or  doing  the  fair  thing  by  a man^  when  he  was  “broke.” 

Yet,  it  need  hardly  be  said,  he  wasn’t  a Ghristian.  But  in  course  of 
time  his  wife  did  become  a Christian,  and  from  that  time  a lively  duel 
Avent  on  between  her  and  the  devil  as  to  which  should  have  her  husband — 
sin  or  salvation. 

Finally,  one  happy  night,  the  persistent  wife  had  her  reward.  By 
a bit  of  wife  sharp  practice  she  extorted  a promise  from  her  husband 
to  go  to  the  Army  meeting  with  her,  and  there  the  Spirit  of  the  living 
God  swept  in  such  splendid  scorn  through  the  soul  of  the  saloon  man, 
that  nothing  was  left  him  but  to  flee  to  the  Cross,  and  there  cling  for 
safety  and  peace. 

Next  morning  the  wife  had  a worrisome  thought. 

“But,  my  dear,”  said  she,  “how  about  the  saloon?” 

“I’ve  been  thinking  of  that,”  said  he. 

“What’ll  you  do — sell  it?” 

He  shook  his  head  decisively. 

“No,  I shan’t  sell.” 

“But,”  cried  the  wife  in  alarm,  “you  can’t  continue  to  run  it!” 

“No,  of  course  not.” 

“But  what’ll  you  do?” 

The  husband  got  up  and  buttoned  his  coat. 

“Suppose  you  come  along,”  said  he,  “and  see.” 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


415 


And  two  hours  later  the  news  spread  like  wildfire  that  a saloon  man 
had  gone  daft  and  was  smashing  his  bottles  and  emptying  his  casks  in 
the  gutter  of  the  street. 

That’s  what  salvation  moved  one  man  to  do  in  the  way  of  adjusting 
his  business  to  his  salvation,  and  somehow,  though  everyone  called  it 
a wicked  waste  of  money,  and  prophesied  poverty  and  ruin  to  the  man 
who  was  guilty  of  it,  when  our  converted  saloonist  opened  a modest  little 
fruit  and  vegetable  stall,  and  made  a bid  for  popular  custom  in  that 
which  could  bring  woe  to  no  hearts  and  ruin  to  no  lives,  the  God  he# 
served  took  an  interest  in  the  new  business,  prospered  it  so  unmistak- 
ably that  our  erstwhile  saloon  brother  has  never  had  any  doubt  that  it 
is  possible  very  successfully  to  adapt  one’s  business  to  one’s  salvation.^ — 
War  Cry. 

THE  FIRST  GLASS. 

In  one  of  our  colleges,  several  years  ago,  was  a young  man  pos- 
sessed of  fine  mind,  excellent  attainments  and  pleasing  manners — the 
life  of  the  social  circle  and  the  favorite  of  all.  He  was  not  only  a 
pleasant,  but  a safe  companion,  for  he  was  free  from  the  vices  with 
which  some  of  the  young  men  who  frequent  college  halls  are  familiar. 
The  inebriating  cup  had  never  passed  his  lips.  But  there  came  a time 
when  the  snare  of  the  tempter  was  thrown  around  him,  and  he  had 
not  the  power  to  break  away. 

At  an  evening  party  wine  formed  a part  of  the  entertainment,  and 
the  sparkling  cup  was  offered  him  by  a gay  young  lady.  Surely  he 
could  not  refuse  to  drink  one  glass  with  her?  There  could  be  no 
harm  in  that. 

Thus  the  young  lady  pleaded,  and  thus  the  young  man  reasoned. 
He  had  never  tasted  wine ; but  when  once  the  cup  had  passed  his  lips,  a 
thirst  was  created  which  clamored  for  indulgence.  That  first  glass, 
pressed  to  his  lips  by  a young  and  thoughtless  lady,  and  accepted  through 
fear  of  appearing  singular,  was  the  beginning  of  a downward  course.  His 
studious  habits  were  abandoned.  He  sought  the  company  of  revelers ; 
rapidly,  madly,  he  rushed  to  ruin,  and  in  a few  short  months  was  laid 
in  a drunkard’s  grave. 

So  young,  so  gifted!  Another  victim  laid  on  the  altar  of  intern- 


416 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


perance.  By  his  fall  many  fond  hopes  were  blighted  and  hearts  almost 
crushed. 

His  companions  in  college  laid  to  heart  the  lessons  taught  by  his 
fearful  fall.  Standing  around  his  grave,  they  made  a solemn  promise 
never  to  taste  the  deadly  poison,  never  to  deal  in  it,  never  to  offer  it 
to  others,  or  in  any  way  to  encourage  its  use. 

Some  of  this  number  still  live,  zealous  advocates  of  the  cause  of 
temperance. 

And  the  young  lady  through  whose  enticing  words  the  first  glass 
passed  his  lips,  can  she  meet  at  the  judgment  the  soul  of  her  victim? 
She  knew  not  what  she  did,  or  hand  and  tongue  would  have  palsied 
as  she  held  before  him  the  sparkling  cup  but  it  is  never  safe  to  trifle 
with  a deadly  poison. 

Young  lady,  as  you  value  the  souls  of  those  whom  you  may  in- 
fluence, shun  the  social  glass.  Let  no  one  be  influenced  by  your  exam- 
ple to  take  the  first  step  in  the  downward  way. — Way  of  Faith. 

“MY  GUESTS  TOUCH  NO  WINE.” 

“The  most  effectual  temperance  lecture  I ever  heard  in  my  life  was 
preached  to  me  on  New  Year’s  Day,”  said  a young  man  recently,  in  the 
hearing  of  a friend. 

“Why,  Horace,  where  were  you?  And  who  delivered  it?”  was  asked. 

“I  was  visiting  in  Philadelphia,  and  with  my  cousin,  John  Levins, 
set  out  to  pay  a number  of  New  Year’s  calls.  It  is  not  the  custom  now, 
as  formerly,  to  set  out  wine  before  guests,  but  it  is  still  done  some- 
times. Our  second  call  was  at  the  princely  home  of  Franklin  Graves,  of 
whom  you  have  heard.  His  lovely  daughter  greeted  us,  smiling  and 
beautiful,  a very  queen  among  women.  There  was  also  an  elegant 
assortment  of  choice  wines  which  the  father  pressed  upon  the  guests. 
‘Did  you  come  to  see  papa  or  me?’  was  always  the  question  asked  of 
each  guest,  and,  so  far  as  I know,  there  was  but  one  answer,  ‘We  came 
to  see  you.’  ‘My  guests  touch  no  wine,’  she  said.  ‘I  have  other  refresh- 
ments provided  for  them.’  The  wine  glasses  stood  untouched,  the  fair 
young  girl  flitted  to  and  fro  among  her  guests,  ministering  herself  to 
their  needs.  The  father  gracefully  acquiesced  and  finally  had  the  wine 
glasses  removed. 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


417 


“‘Did  you  ever  witness  anything  so  effectual  as  that?’  said  Cousin 
John,  as  we  started  up  the  street  together. 

“‘Never,’  I answered.  ‘No  temperance  lecture  ever  touched  me  like 
that  quiet  speech,  ‘My  guests  touch  no  wine.’  God  helping  me,  it  is  the 
last  time  the  glass  shall  ever  touch  my  lips.’ 

“I  have  since  learned  that  more  than  one  young  man  began  refor- 
mation on  New  Year’s  Day  as  the  result  of  that  very  call.” 

“My  guests  touch  no  wine.”  They  were  simple  words,  quietly 
spoken,  but  what  did  they  not  imply? 

This  Christian  girl  performed  a service  as  faithfully  as  though  the 
kingdom  of  God  depended  upon  her  fidelity. — Home  Herald. 

SHERIDAN  AND  tllS  SON. 

General  Sheridan,  on  being  asked  by  a friend  what  he  should  choose 
for  his’  little  son  froni  all  the  temptations  which  beset  him,  the  one  most 
to  be  feared,  what  would  it  be,  leaned  his  head  and  said  soberly : 

“It  would  be  the  curse  of  strong  drink.  Boys  are  not  saints.  We 
are  all  self-willed,  strong-willed,  may  be  full  of  courage  and  thrift  and 
push  and  kindness  and  charity,  but  woe  to  the  man  or  boy  who  becomes 
a slave  to  liquor.  O,  I had  rather  see  my  little  son  die  to-day  than  to 
see  him  carried  in  to  his  mother  drunk ! One  of  my  brave  soldier  boys 
on  the  field  said  to  me  just  before  a battle,  when  he  gave  me  his  message 
to  his  mother,  if  he  should  be  killed,  ‘Tell  her  I have  kept  my  promise  to 
her.  Not  one  drink  have  I ever  tasted.’  The  boy  was  killed.  I carried 
the  message  with  my  own  lips  to  the  mother.  She  said:  ‘General,  that 
is  more  glory  for  my  boy  than  if  he  had  taken  a city!’” — Temperance 
Cause. 

THE  OPPRESSOR. 

It  has  been  my  habit  for  several  years  to  clip  from  the  newspapers 
these  ghastly  records,  and  when  I have  accumulated  a large  number,  take 
a spare  hour  or  two  and  paste  them  on  sheets  one  below  another,  and 
now  and  then  read  over  the  long  list. 

What  a record  of  hell ! What  Christian  heart  could  be  unmoved  ? 
What  an  incentive  to  earnest  endeavor!  What  an  opportunity  for 
Christ  and  humanity! 


418 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


Stabbing,  cutting,  wounding,  brutal  assaults,  homicide,  parricides> 
infanticide,  suicide,  and  murder  in  every  form,  all  the  outcome  of  the 
liquor  traffic. 

No  wonder  the  grog-seller  said,  concerning  his  business,  when  every- 
body was  excited  over  a suicide  which  had  occurred  through  drink, 
“Gentlemen,  it’s  a damnable  business,  but  there  is  money  in  it.” 

I considered  the  wrongs  which  innocent  sufferers  have  to  endure; 
the  blasphemy  and  insult  to  God  and  his  Son  growing  out  of  it;  the 
disgKace  of  it  to  our  civilization  and  our  Christianity;  the  contradiction 
of  every  principle  of  political  economy  and  common  sense;  the  stupidity 
of  the  nations  that  permit  its  continuance.  When  I think  of  it,  I often 
ask,  “Are  we  even  yet  more  than  half  civilized?” 

' What  will  our  grandchildren  think  of  us  when  they  come  to  peruse 
the  records  of  our  police  courts?  Oh,  that  is  nothing.  What  will  God 
think  of  us  when  we  face  the  judgment?  What  will  we  think  of  our- 
selves? We  are  not  doing  our  best.  What  will  those  poor  souls  who 
have  gone  down  to  eternal  despair  through  the  drink  traffic  think  of  us, 
when,  had  we  been  more  in  earnest,  we  might  have  led  their  captivity 
captive.  We  might  long  ago  have  destroyed  the  destroyer.  We  think 
the  Hindoo  wicked  and  stupid  because  he  built  a juggernaut  and  rolled 
it  through  the  streets  now  and  then,  permitting  those  frenzied  ones  who 
would  to  throw  themselves  under  its  ponderous  wheels.  Where  their 
car  has  crushed  one,  ours  has  crushed  one  thousand — yea,  ten  thousand. 

Old  systems  of  political  despotism,  tyranny,  serfdom  and  slavery 
are  all  thrown  into  the  shade  when  compared  with  the  oppression  which 
this  legalized  system  entails  upon  our  race.  Those  affected  the  body, 
this  the  immortal  soul  as  well. 

“Behold  the  tears  of  such  as  are  oppressed.” 

A 3^ung  girl  came  to  me  and  said,  “Mr.  Lucas,  three  years  ago  my 
mother  died.  She  made  me  promise  that  I would  be  a mother  to  the 
little  ones.  My  father  drinks  up  all  he  earns  and  has  now  begun  to 
drink  also  what  my  two  little  brothers  earn,  till  I have  not  one  dollar  left 
to  fulfill  my  pledge  to  my  dying  mother.”  I did  everything  in  my  power 
to  try  and  reform  that  man,  but  the  grog-shop  has  more  power  than 
our  moral  suasion  when  it  gets  its  grip  upon  these  men.  Two  years 
later  all  those  little  ones  that  dying  mother  left  behind  here  were  in  jail 
for  stealing. 

A young  wife  left  her  bed  on  a cold  night  to  open  the  outer  door  for 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


419 


her  inebriate  husband.  While  she  was  shutting  it,  he  staggered  through 
the  inner  door,  and,  shutting  it,  the  spring  locked  her  out  in  the  bitter 
cold.  How  she  came  down  to  her  death  was  wrung  from  her  by  her 
father  a little  before  her  loving  and  faithful  spirit  took  its  flight. 

A woman  at  Masterton,  New  Zealand,  went  to  a grog-seller  and 
besought  him  with  tears  not  to  sell  her  husband  any  more  liquor,  as  both 
she  and  her  children  were  becoming  very  much  afraid  of  him  when  he 
was  under  its  influence.  That  grog-seller  took  her  by  the  shoulders  and 
shoved  her  violently  into  the  street.  In  less  than  a fortnight  the  hus- 
band, supplied  with  liquor  by  that  same  grog-seller,  killed  the  poor 
woman  and  their  four  children  with  an  axe.  Behold  the  sufferings  and 
the  tears  of  such  as  are  oppressed. 

One  said  in  our  meeting,  “I  have  often  gone  supperless  to  bed 
because  my  father  was  a drunkard.  Literally  starving,  I one  day  took 
a bun  from  a counter  in  a store.  My  father,  being  told  of  it,  very 
nearly  beat  me  to  death.” 

“Have  you  no  shoes,  my  boy?”  said  a friend  of  mine  to  a barefooted 
little  fellow  on  a cold  winter’s  day.  The  poor  child  began  to  cry,  saying, 
“Sir,  a lady  gave  me  a pair  of  shoes,  but  mother  sold  them  for  beer.” — 
Rev.  D.  V.  Lucas,  D.  D.,  in  Wav  of  Faith. 

THE  LITTLE  SHOES. 

At  a temperance  meeting  in  England,  the  chairman,  addressing  a 
young  man,  yet  a reformed  drunkard,  said : 

“Come,  William  Turner,  you  have  known  as  much  about  the  drink 
evil  as  anyone  here  or  anywhere;  come,  tell  us,  for  I never  heard  how 
it  was  that  you  changed  right  about  face  from  the  mouth  of  hell  to  the 
gate  of  hope.  Come,  man,  out  with  it;  maybe  it’ll  do  good.” 

The  young  man  thus  urged  rose  and  looked  for  a moment  very  con- 
fused. All  he  could  say  was ; 

“The  little  shoes — they  did  it.” 

With  a thick  voice,  as  if  his  heart  were  in  his  throat,  he  kept  repeat- 
ing this.  There  was  a stare  of  perplexity  on  every  face,  and  at  length 
some  thoughtless  people  began  to  titter.  The  man,  in  all  his  embarrass- 
ment, heard  this  sound,  and  rallied  at  once.  The  light  came  into  his 
eyes  with  a flash ; he  drew  himself  up  and  looked  at  the  audience ; the 
choking  went  from  his  throat. 


420 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


“Yes,  friends,”  he  said,  in  a voice  that  cut  its  way  clear  as  a deep- 
toned  bell,  “whatever  you  may  think  of  it.  I’ve  told  you  the  truth — the 
little  shoes  did  it.  I was  a brut§  and  a fool ; strong  drink  had  made 
me  both  and  starved  and  stripped  me  in  the  bargain.  I suffered;  I 
deserved  to  suffer.  But  I didn’t  suffer  alone ; no  man  does  who  has  a 
wife  and  child,  for  the  woman  gets  the  worst  share.  But  I’m  no  speaker 
to  enlarge  on  that;  I’ll  stick  to  the  little  shoes.  I saw  one  night,  when 
I was  all  but  done  for,  the  publican’s  child  holding  out  her  feet  for  her 
father  to  see  her  fine  new  shoes.  It  was  a simple  thing,  but,  friends,  no 
fist  ever  struck  me  such  a blow  as  those  little  shoes.  They  kicked 
reason  into  me.  ‘What  business  have  I to  clothe  others  and  let  my  own 
go  bare?’  said  I.  And  there,  outside,  was  my  wife  and  child,  in  a bitter 
night.  I took  hold  of  my  little  one  with  a grip,  and  I saw  her  chilled 
feet.  Men,  fathers,  if  the  shoes  smote  me,  what  did  the  feet  do?  I put 
them,  cold  as  ice,  to  my  breast ; they  pierced  me  through  and  through. 
Yes,  the  little  feet  walked  right  into  my  heart  and  turned  out  my  selfish- 
ness. I had  a trifle  of  money  left.  I bought  a loaf  of  bread  and  a pair  of  ' 
little  shoes.  I never  tasted  anything  but  a bit  of  bread  all  the  Sabbath  j 
day,  and  I went  to  work  like  mad  on  Monday,  and  from  that  day  I have  ' 
spent  no  more  money  in  the  public  house.  That  is  all  I’ve  got  to  say. 

It  was  the  little  shoes  that  did  it.” — National  Temperance  Advocate.  , 

A PROMISE  TO  A MOTHER. 

While  drinking  whiskey  was  the  fashion  all  about  him,  Abraham 
Lincoln  never  forgot  his  dead  mother’s  request  to  close  his  lips  against  j 
intoxicants.  Once,  when  he  was  a member  of  Congress,  a friend  criticised 
him  for  his  seeming  rudeness  in  declining  to  test  the  rare  wines  pro- 
vided by  their  host,  using  as  a reason  for  the  reproof,  “There  is  certainly 
no  danger  of  a man  of  your  years  and  habits  becoming  addicted  to 
its  use.” 

“I  meant  no  disrespect,  John,”  answered  Mr.  Lincoln,  “but  I prom- 
ised my  precious  mother  only  a few  days  before  she  died,  that  I would 
never  use  anything  intoxicating  as  a beverage,  and  I consider  that 
promise  as  binding  to-day  as  it  was  the  day  I gave  it.” 

“There  is  a great  difference  between  a child  surrounded  by  a rough 
class  of  drinkers  and  a man  in  a home  of  refinement,”  insisted  the  friend. 

“But  a promise  is  a promise  forever,  John,  and  when  made  to  a 
mother  it  is  doubly  binding,”  replied  Mr.  Lincoln. — Way  of  Faith. 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


421 


“WE  PLAYED  CARDS  AND  DRANK  WINE.” 

Sauntering  leisurely  along  the  street,  a well-dressed  young  lady 
passed  me.  She  gave  a peculiar  call.  It  was  answered  by  a girl  about 
her  own  size  and  age.  The  two  girls  seated  themselves  on  the  edge  of 
a porch  and  at  once  began  an  animated  chit-chat,  and  so  loud  as  to  be 
distinetly  heard  rods  off.  This  is  a part  of  what  I was  almost  compelled 
to  hear: 

“Yes,  we  played  cards  with  the  gentleman,  and  drank  a good  d'eal 
of  wine,  and  perhaps  did  and  said  things  that  we  ought  not  to,  but  the 
folks  needn’t  make  such-  a fuss  about  it.” 

“S’h!”  warned  her  companion.  “If  my  mother  were  to  hear  what 
you  say,  it  would  be  the  last  of  my  going  out  of  this  house  after  dark.” 

So  long  as  men  with  rotten  hearts  are  on  the  lookout  for  victims, 
and  such  careless  ones  present  themselves  as  these  girls  apparently  were 
recruits  will  continue  tO’ swell  the  army  of  the  lost. 

“We  played  cards  and  drank  wine.”  When  did  they  begin  this 
habit  of  wine-drinking,  I wonder?  Once  when  my  field  of  labor  in 
this  gospel  temperance  work  was  in  one  of  the  interior  towns  of  the 
Middle  States,  I met  on  the  principal  avenue  a young  woman,  a former 
pupil  in  the  Sunday  School  in  a distant  village.  A moment’s  conversation 
showed  me  how  the  cruel  vulture  had  done  its  ghoulish  work.  The  spirit 
of  the  Samaritan  moved  me.  I prayed  that  I might  be  able  to  turn  her 
wayward  feet.  The  purity  of  blessed  childhood’s  days  and  scenes, 
associations  sweet  and  sacred,  hallowed  memories,  early  playmates — 
all,  all  were  presented  in  the  brilliant  color  of  hope  and  trust.  A mist 
filled  her  eyes. 

“Come,  I’ll  take  you  home.  In  less  than  a day  we’ll  be  there.  How 
glad  your  parents  will  be  to  see  you ! Surely  you  do  not  forget  the  love 
of  father  and  mother,  and  you  do  want  to  see  them  again,  don’t  you, 
Mary?” 

Straightening  herself  up  to  her  full  height,  her  face  white,  her  form 
rigid  and  strained,  in  a voice  whose  tone  conveyed  hate,  mingled  with 
despair,  she  answered: 

“Yes,  I do  remember  them.  They  taught  me  to  drink  wine  at  the 
family  board.  I was  told  to  drink  it  like  a lady.  Easily  and  quickly 
enough  I learned  to  like  it.  I tried  to  drink  it  ‘like  a lady.’  Under  its 
influence,  the  bottle  was  drained;  my  brain  reeled;  the  world  was  torn 


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from  under  my  feet;  the  sky  became  all  brass.  To-day  I am  eating  the 
ashes  of  the  apples  of  the  Dead  Sea.  There  is  nothing  left  worth  living 
for.  I can’t  fight  the  odds  much  longer.  Every  hand  pushes  me  nearer 
the  bottom ; then  comes  the  end.  Some  day  I must  stand  at  the  bar  ot 
God,  and  I tell  you  I shall  be  a true  witness  against  those  who  taught 
me  to  ‘drink  wine  like  a lady.’  ” — Way  of  Faith. 

A DRUNKARD’S  WILL. 

A dying  drunkard  in  Oswego,  N.  Y.,  left  the  following  as  his  “last 
will  and  testament 

“1  leave  to  society  a ruined  character,  a wretched  example  and  a 
memory  that  will  soon  rot.  I leave  to  my  parents  as  much  sorrow  as 
they  can,  in  their  feeble  state,  bear.  I leave  to  my  brothers  and  sisters 
as  much  shame  and  mortification  as  I can  bring  on  them.  I leave  to  my 
wife  a broken  heart  and  a life  of  shame.  I leave  to  each  of  my  children 
poverty,  ignorance,  a low  character  and  a remembrance  that  their  father 
filled  a drunkard’s  grave.” 

Ye  patrons  of  the  saloon,  is  this  the  ‘‘will  and  testament”  you  are 
writing  out  each  day  for  your  wife  and  children?  Shame  upon  you  to 
leave  them  such  a xlisgraceful  inheritance!  Where  is  your  manhood? 
Where  is  your  love  for  your  family?  Where  is  your  honor  and  nobility? 
Are  you  selling  it  to  the  saloonkeeper? 

When  the  writer  of  this  sat  in  the  office  recently,  looking  over  the 
copy  for  the  “Frozen  Truth,”  an  honest-looking  workman  came  in,  and 
in  the  course  of  conversation  with  the  clerk  in  the  office,  said : “I  used 
to  patronize  the  saloons,  I drank  regularly,  but  I soon  learned  that  I 
could  not  support  the  saloons  and  support  my  family,  too;  I could  not 
drink  and  provide  for  the  wants  of  my  family  as  I should,  and  so  I quit 
drinking,  and  I left  off  patronizing  the  saloons.” — Selected  by  Way  of 
Faith. 

THEY  HAD  BEEN  THERE. 

A saloonist  innocently  reveals  one  of  the  principal  difficulties  in  the 
way  of  enforcing  the  law  against  liquor  dealers,  in  a trial  before  a 
justice  court,  according  to  the  Templar.  On  being  sworn,  one  of  the 
attorneys  in  the  case  asked,  “Mr. , where  is  your  place  of  business?” 


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“What  for  you  ask  me  such  dings?  You  drinks  at  my  place  more  as 
a hundred  times !” 

“That  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  case,  Mr. . State  to  the  jury 

where  your  place  of  business  is.” 

“De  shury ! de  'shury ! Oh,  my  shiminy ! Every  shentlemen  on  dis 
shury  has  a string  of  marks  on  my  cellar  door  shust  like  a rail  fence.” 

The  court  then  interceded  in  behalf  of  the  counsel,  and  in  a calm, 
dignified  manner,  requested  the  witness  to  state  the  place  of  his  business. 

“Oh,  excuse  me,  your  honor,  you  drink  mit  my  place  so  many  times. 
I dinks  you  know  very  well  where  I keep  mine  blace.” — Watchword. 

MR.  GLADSTONE’S  TEMPERANCE  WORK. 

Many  years  ago  two  young  men,  residents  of  Hawarden,  became 
notorious  for  their  drinking  habits,  and  it  occurred  to  the  late  distin- 
guished statesman  that  he  would  make  an  attempt  to  reclaim  the  erring 
youths.  With  this  in  view,  Mr.  Gladstone  arranged  to  see  them  at  the 
Castle,  where,  alone  in  his  library — the  historic  “Temple  of  Peace” — he 
impressively  appealed  for  their  reformation,  and  then  knelt  and  fer- 
vently asked  God  to  sustain  and  strengthen  them  in  the  resolve  hence- 
forth to  abstain  from  the  use  of  that  which  had  hitherto  occasioned  so 
much  mischief. 

The  sequel  is  best  told  in  the  language  of  one  of  the  men. 

“Never,”  he  says,  “can  I forget  the  scene,  and  as  long  as  I have 
memory,  the  incidents  of  the  meeting  will  be  indelibly  impressed  on 
my  mind.  The  Grand  Old  Man  was  profoundly  moved  by  the  intensity 
of  his  solicitation.  My  companion  is  now  a prominent  Baptist  minister 
in  Wales,  and  neither  of  us  from  that  day  to  this  have  touched  a drop 
of  intoxicating  drink,  nor  are  we  ever  likely  to  violate  the  undertaking 
so  impressively  ratified  in  Mr.  Gladstone’s  library.” 

Mr.  Gladstone,  at  Liverpool,  1892 : “Let  us  all  carry  with  us,  deeply 
stamped  upon  our  hearts,  a sense  of  shame  for  the  great  plague  of 
drunkenness  which  goes  through  the  land,  sapping  and  undermining 
character,  breaking  up  the  happiness  of  families,  oftentimes  choosing  for 
its  victims  not  the  worst,  but  the  most  susceptible.  Surely,  there  is 
hardly  one  among  us  who  has  not  seen  the  pestilent  results  to  which 
the  habit  leads.  We  should  carry  with  us  a deep  and  adequate  sense 


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of  the  mischief,  and  an  earnest  intention  to  do  what  in  us  lies  to 
remove  it.” 

“What  would  the  great  nations  of  the  earth  do,”  asked  a liquor 
paper,  “were  it  not  for  the  revenue  they  derive  from  the  liqour  traffic?” 

“Give  me  a sober  nation,”  said  Gladstone,  “and  I will  take  care  of 
the  revenue.”  And  surely  America  will  not  say  “can’t”  when  England 
says  “can.” — Selected  by  Way  of  Faith. 

THE  SALOON  AND  CHILDREN. 

In  a recent  address,  S.  I.  Roberts,  superintendent  of  cotton  works 
at  Danville,  Virginia,  said : “The  effect  of  the  saloon  upon  children  of 
the  laborer,  according  to  my  observation  (and  it  is  not  very  limited),  is 
indescribably  sad.  A few  years  ago,  when  there  were  saloons  in  Dan- 
ville, I went  to  the  mill  one  Monday  morning  quite  early,  and  as  the 
operators  came  in  to  their  respective  departments,  I noticed  a little  girl 
and  boy,  who  seemed  only  to  have  been  at  work  a few  days. 

“The  little  girl  looked  thin  and  pale,  and  shortly  after  the  machinery 
started,  she  came  over  to  where  I was,  and  said,  Air.  Roberts,  I am  so 
weak  and  feel  so  badly,  I cannot  work  to-day,  brother  and  I have  not 
had  a mouthful  of  breakfast,  and  mother  is  at  home,  hungry  and  sad.’ 

“I  said,  ‘What  does  this  mean?  Didn’t  you  draw  your  wages  Satur- 
day evening?’  ‘Yes,  sir,’  said  she,  ‘but  (looking  down  on  the  floor,  and 
with  tears  in  her  eyes),  father  has  got  to  drinking  and  spent  all  the 
money  Saturday  night  and  did  not  bu}'-  an5"thing  for  us  to  eat.’  I went 
and  ordered  breakfast  for  them  both,  then  I called  them,  and  said,  ‘You 
go  home  and  tell  your  father  and  mother  both  to  come  down  to  the  mill 
and  see  me.’ 

“They  came,  and  I promptly  said  to  the  father,  that  we  would  not 
allow  his  children  to  work  for  us  longer,  except  on  one  condition.  Says 
he,  ‘What  is  that?’  I answered  that  the  wages  they  made  must  be 
drawn  by  the  mother  and  used  by  her  to  obtain  food  and  clothing  for 
the  children,  and  that  he  must  not  touch  the  money  or  have  anything 
to  do  with  the  purchases.  After  some  hesitation,  and  seeing  that 
argument  was  useless,  he  agreed. 

“A  few  days  later  I was  driving  along  the  street,  and  a bar-keeper 
came  out  of  a saloon  and  hailed  me  to  stop.  He  came  up  to  my  buggy 
and  said,  ‘Look  here,  Mr.  Roberts,  you  are  interfering  with  my  business.' 


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425 


‘What/  said  I,  ‘I  interfering  with  your  business?  Your  business  is 
to  take  food  from  the  mouths  of  women  and  children,  and  clothes  off 
their  backs.  My  business  is  to  put  them  on.’  He  turned  on  his  heels 
and  walked  away.” — Selected  by  Church  Advocate. 

SUNSHINE  OR  SHADOW. 

“Choose  you  this  day  whom  ye  will  serve.”  There  is  danger  in 
halting  and  in  wavering. 

A stonecutter  had  in  his  employ  two  intemperate  men.  One  Mon- 
day, as  they  entered  the  yard,  he  said  to  them,  “Why  do  you  waste  your- 
selves so?  The  moment  you  get  your  Saturday  wages  you  go  and  lay 
out  everything  in  rum.  And  Sundays  you  lie  in  the  gutter  until  the 
flies  are  so  thick  on  your  faces  that  no  one  would  know  you  from  a 
brute  that  was  dead  and  ought  to  be  buried  out  of  sight.” 

Ten  years  passed.  On  a recent  morning  this  employer,  on  his  way 
to  his  office  in  New  York  city,  saw  at  a corner  of  Third  Avenue  one  of 
those  men  taking  a bone  out  of  a garbage  barrel  and  tearing  it  apart 
with  his  fingers  that  he  might  gnaw  out  the  gristle  in  the  joint — a poor, 
blear-eyed  ruin  and  sot. 

Hardly  had  his  former  employer  reached  his  desk,  when  a pleasant- 
looking  man  entered  and  said,  “Do  you  remember  me?”  He  had  no 
difficulty  in  the  recognition.  It  was  the  other  of  the  two  employees  of 
years  before.  He  went  on:  “I  took  to  heart  what  you  said  to  me,  and 
dropped  liquor  at  once  and  forever.  I am  now  in  easy  circumstances 
and  have  two  thousand  on  deposit  at  the  Metropolitan  Bank.”  There, 
within  an  hour  of  observation,  were  the  fruits  of  ten  years’  history  — 
Christian  Standard. 

BOTTLES  MAKE  RAGS. 

“Bottles  and  rags ! Bottles  and  rags !”  called  the  rag-man,  as  he 
plied  his  calling. 

“Why  do  you  always  put  these  words  together?”  asked  the  passer-by. 

“Because,  madam,”  said  the  rag-man,  courteously  touching  his  hat  to 
the  lady,  “wherever  you  find  bottles  you  find  rags.” 

Shrewd  philosophy ! It  is  a pity  that  our  statesmen  cannot  see  the 
thing  as  clearly,  and  that,  for  the  good  of  prosperity,  to  say  nothing  of 


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the  moral  happiness  of  the  people,  they  do  not  stop  the  accursed  liquor 
traffic,  instead  of  putting  in  the  way  of  Christian  workers  all  sorts  of 
handicaps. 

Remember  the  shrewd  words  of  the  rag-man,  who  sees  things  as 
they  are : “Wherever  you  find  bottles  you  find  rags.”  And  if  you  wish 
to  save  people  from  coming  to  rags,  you  will  banish  the  bottle.  Let  us 
all  say  we  shall  not  give  over  the  fight  until  we  succeed. — Angelus. 

A WORD  ABOUT  A DROP. 

“Come  in,  Patrick,  and  take  a drop  of  something,”  said  one  Chicago 
Irishman  to  another. 

“No,  Mike,  I am  afraid  of  drops  ever  since  Tim  Flaherty  died.” 

“Well,  what  about  him?” 

“He  was  one  of  the  likeliest  fellows  in  these  parts.  But  he  began  the 
drop  business  in  Barney  Shannon’s  saloon.  It  was  a drop  of  something 
out  of  a bottle  at  first.  But  in  a little  while  Tim  took  a few  drops 
too  much,  and  then  he  dropped  into  the  gutter.  He  lost  his  place,  he  lost 
his  coat  and  hat,  he  lost  his  money ; he  lost  everything  but  his  thirst 
for  strong  drink.  Poor  Tim ! And  the  worst  was  to  come.  He  got 
crazy  with  drink  one  day  and  killed  a m.an.  And  the  last  time  I saw  him 
he  was  taking  his  last  drop  with  a slipping  noose  around  his  neck. 

“I  have  quit  the  dropping  business,  Mike.  I have  seen  so  many 
good  fellows  when  whiskey  had  the  drop  on  them.  They  took  just  a 
drop  from  a bottle,  and  they  dropped  into  the  gutter,  and  then  dropped 
into  the  grave.  No  rumseller  can  get  a drop  on  me  any  more,  and  if 
you  don’t  drop  him,  Mike,  he  will  drop  you.” — Templar. 

FLAVORED  WITH  BRANDY. 

In  the  early  married  life  of  a certain  lady  in  the  state  of  New  York, 
a young  friend  whom  she  had  known  and  loved  since  childhood — an 
only  son — came  from  his  home  in  a neighboring  town  to  spend  the  day 
with  her.  He  had  been  a victim  of  alcohol  of  the  “spree”  variety,  but 
to  the  great  joy  of  his  friends,  had  now  for  eight  months  triumphed  over 
his  demon  master. 

All  went  well  until  dinner,  when  for  dessert,  the  mistress  of  the 
boarding-house  sent  up  the  usual  pie  and  a pudding  flavored  with 
brandy.  Mrs.  B. quietly  moved  the  latter  back  from  both  their 


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plates,  saying  to  her  friend,  “You  and  I will  take  pie,”  but  the  familiar 
odor  had  made  its  appeal.  He  alternately  drew  up  and  pushed  back 
the  plate,  and  at  last  nervously  seized  it  and  eagerly  devoured  the 
poisoned  food. 

Full  of  apprehension  she  returned  with  him  to  her  own  apart- 
ments, resorting  to  every  possible  expedient  to  divert  and  entertain  him 
until  the  time  for  the  train,  shuddering  at  the  thought  of  sending  him 
home  once  more  bound  for  Satan,  bht  in  vain.  Looking  at  his  watch 
repeatedly,  he  finally  said,  “I  must  go  to  the  station.”  “I  will  go  with 
you,”  was  her  reply,  and  they  started  out  together  and  passed  the 
first  hell-gate  safely,  but  at  the  second  he  darted  from  her  side  and 
disappeared.  In  dismay,  she  flew  to  her  husband’s  office,  telling  him 
he  must  come  and  find  the  fugitive.  The  eager  search  was  vain ; but 
on  the  third  day,  on  a pile  of  lumber,  drenched  by  the  pouring  rain, 
robbed  of  watch  and  diamond  studs,  he  was  found  and  taken  back  to  his 
home ! Three  months  after,  as  a result  of  his  exposure,  he  was  borne 

4o  his  grave.  Mrs.  B. was  sent  for  in  his  last  hours.  With  failing 

breath,  he  tried  to  comfort  his  agonized  mother,  and  to  his  friend  he 
said,  “Don’t  be  troubled  that  I took  the  brandy  sauce  with  you.  I am 
too  weak  to  resist  temptation;  it  is  better  for  me  to  die  now,”  and  so 
he  passed  to  where  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling.  What  a lesson 
for  us! — Union  Signal. 

BE  NOT  DECEIVED. 

“Oh,  I take  it  to  aid  digestion.  I suffer  so  from  dyspepsia,”  was 
the  reply  of  an  army  officer  when  cautioned  against  the  use  of  alcoholic 
drink.  What  folly  I Why,  men  put  dead  flesh  into  alcohol  to  prevent 
it  from  corruption.  To  take  drink  to  allay  or  reduce  an  inflammation 
is  like  putting  oil  on  fire.  Injuries  and  gunshot  wounds  fare  far  worse 
in  a drinking  man  than  in  a sober  one.  “But  for  the  alcohol  in  him,” 
says  the  doctor,  “or  the  bad  blood  caused  by  beer,  there  might  be  hope.” 

A man’s  motive  in  taking  the  drink  may  be  good,  but  liquors  never 
stop  to  ask  what  you  want  of  them;  they  go  in  and  do  their  work  of 
death. 

But  it  is  said  that  liquor  is  needful  and  useful  in  fatigue  duty. 
Is  it?  Why  do  the  soldiers  need  it?  Is  it  to  give  them  warmth?  This 
it  never  does.  Alcohol  produces  a sudden  excitement  and  glow,  but  it 


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abstracts  heat,  and  the  man  is  colder  after  it  than  he  was  before  it.  Does 
he  need  it  for  nourishment  when  exhausted?  This  it  does  not  give. 
The  idea  that  alcohol  is  consumed  in  the  system,  and  is  properly  food, 
is  exploded.  It  is  never  digested,  more  than  a stroke  of  lightning.  It 
remains  in  the  system,  disturbing  every  part  until  it  is  expelled  through 
the  lungs  and  liver. 

It  goes  to  the  brain  and  produces  brain  fever  and  madness,  and  the 
man  who  drinks  it  on  fatigue  duty  is  but  the  more  fatigued  and  the 
more  disqualified  for  his  arduous  duties. — The  National  Advocate. 

THE  COMMANDER’S  PLACARDS. 

The  military  commander  of  Paris  has  ordered  that  placards  illus- 
trating the  evil  effects  of  alcohol  ^hall  be  placed  on  all  the  barracks  in 
that  city.  These  cards,  which  are  hung  in  conspicuous  places,  show  on 
one  side  the  interior  organs  of  a drunkard,  and  on  the  other  side  those 
of  a temperate  man.  Beneath  is  a brief  explanation  of  the  pathological 
and  moral  effects  of  the  abuse  of  alcohol. — Way  of  Faith. 

WHAT’S  YOUR  BOY  WORTH. 

Last  fall,  with  Mr.  A.  B.  Campbell,  of  Topeka,  I attended  a tem- 
perance meeting  held  in  a schoolhouse  in  Shawnee  county,  Kansas. 
After  two  speeches  had  been  made  a collection  was  taken  up  to  raise 
money  to  prosecute  liquor  sellers  in  that  county. 

A tall  Kansan  arose  and  said : “Put  me  down  for  $20 ; I have  six 
boys,  and,  if  necessary,  will  make  my  subscription  more.  To  save  them 
a $100  bill  would  be  a small  amount.” 

Yet  he  was  a hard  working  farmer;  but  he  loved  his  boys,  and,  as  a 
consequence,  hated  the  liquor  traffic. 

In  my  late  trip  I asked  a man,  formerly  a New  York  merchant,  how 
it  was  that  he  had  taken  such  an  interest  in  the  prohibition  movement. 
He  replied : “To  my  astonishment  I found  out  that  my  eldest  boy  had 
taken  a drink  of  beer.” 

That  was  enough.  He  loved  him  as  “the  apple  of  his  eye.”  And 
now  every  energy  of  that  business  man  is  brought  into  active  service 
to  protect  his  son  from  the  ravages  of  the  liquor  trade. 

In  a town  meeting  in  Jersey,  after  a public  meeting,  a gentleman 
asked  what  he  should  do  to  save  his  two  dissolute,  idrunken  boys.  A 


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^.an  «{  means,  and  living  in  a handsome  country  residence,  he  could  not 
see  why  they  preferred  the  saloon  to  their  home  of  comfort.  The  liquor 
trade,  knowing  that  he  would  foot  all  bills,  was  only  too  willing  to  give 
the  boys  all  the  poison  they  asked  for.  He  said  he  loved  them;  but  he 
never  voted  for  home  protection,  as  against  the  saloon,  on  election  day. 
His  boys,  practically,  were  not  worth  casting  a ballot  for. 

I came  across  a mother  in  Ohio  who  loved  her  boy  so  that  she  would 
not  give  her  husband  any  rest  until  he  promised  to  vote  for  the  second 
amendment.  Some  people  thought  she  was  only  a humble,  ignorant 
woman,  but  she  was  smart  enough  to  know  the  value  of  her  boy. 

You  mothers  who  read  this  article,  answer  me  this  question;  What’s 
your  boy  worth?  Make  the  price  high,  for  he  is  “bone  of  your  bone  and 
flesh  of  your  flesh.”  Ask  father  if  he  is  worth  a ballot  next  election. 
Put  the  question  to  him  with  tear-drops  trickling  down  your  cheeks, 
backed  up  with  a prayer  of  faith.  If  you  can  do  it  with  all  sincerity, 
the  true  value  of  his  boy  will  appear  and  all  other  questions  sink  into 
insignificance. 

What  is  your  boy  worth? 

1.  He  is  worth  asking  to  sign  the  total  abstinence  pledge. 

2.  He  is  of  sufficient  value  to  be  sent  to  a school  to  be  educated — 
to  be  instructed  as  to  the  effects  of  alcohol  upon  the  human  system. 

3.  He  is  of  sufficient  importance  for  you  to  know  where  he  spends 
his  evenings  and  who  are  his  associates. 

4.  He  is  of  more  value  than  many  household  pets,  and  is  entitled  to 
more  of  your  time  and  attention. 

5.  To  say  nothing  of  the  value  of  your  boy’s  good  character,  he  has 
cost  you  for  food,  raiment  and  education,  more  than  what  the  average 
saloonkeeper  pays  for  his  license. 

6.  “As  the  twig  is  bent  the  tree  is  inclined.”  It  will  be  of  great 
importance  to  you  whether  your  boy  is  a valuable  citizen  or  a curse  to 
you  and  the  neighborhood  in  which  y<>u  reside.  If  he  turns  out  good, 
he  will  be  worth  his  weight  in  gold ; if  otherwise,  better  he  had  never 
been  born. 

7.  Being  immortal,  he  is  worth  a life’s  work  to  prepare  him  for  a 
happy  hereafter. 

No  license  was  ever  made  high  enough  to  cover  the  lowest  esti- 


430 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


mate  that  you  can  put  on  your  boy  if  there’s  a spark  of  Christianity  or 
humanity  in  your  heart. 

Nebraska  virtually  says  its  city  boys  are  worth  $1,000;  altogether 
too  low.  New  York  city  puts  the  price  of  her  boys  at  $75 ; less  than 
the  price  of  a city  railway  horse — an  insult  to  every  mother. 

What’s  your  boy  worth? 

Tell  me  the  value  of  his  soul,  and  I’ll  name  the  price  of  the  privilege 
to  sell  intoxicants. 

What’s  your  answer? — Witness. 

KEEP  THE  PLEDGE. 

A little  incident  related  to  me  by  an  eye  witness  is  so  suggestive 
within  itself  that  I have  decided  to  give  it  to  those  who  may  chance  to 
see  these  columns. 

In  one  of  our  North  Carolina  towns,  not  a’  hundred  miles  distant, 
one  of  the  hotelists  habitually  dispenses  wine  at  his  tables. 

Not- long  since  three  young  men,  two  of  them  seemingly  traveling 
companions,  the  third  a stranger  to  them  both,  chanced  to  be  seated  at 
one  end  of  the  table,  while  two  elderly  gentlemen  occupied  the  other 
end. 

After  the  viands  had  been  served  the  waiter  handed  the  wine.  The 
two  elderly  gentlemen  filled  their  glasses,  and,  while  they  sat  drinking 
and  talking,  the  wine  was  passed  on  to  the  three  young  men. 

The  stranger  refused  it ; one  of  the  other  two  said : “No,  I’m  under 
a pledge and  the  third  also  refused  it.  The  waiter  then  deposited  the 
decanter  on  the  table  just  in  front  of  the  pledged  young  man. 

For  a few  moments  he  sat  quietly  eating,  but  as  the  odor  from  the 
older  men’s  glasses  reached  his  olfactories  and  it  sat  sparkling  before 
him  in  ruby  splendor,  his  eyes  began  to  glance  from  plate  to  bottle ; he 
grew  restless  and  inattentive  to  his  companion’s  conversation,  and  at 
last  he  seemed  to  see  nothing  but  the  bottle.  Finally,  with  eyes  dilated 

and  frame  trembling,  he  threw  down  knife  and  fork,  exclaiming:  “D 

the  pledge,”  and  made  a grasp  for  the  bottle. 

Just  then  the  stranger,  who  had  been  quietly  watching  and  hesi- 
tating to  speak,  said:  “Don’t  do  that;  keep  your  pledge,”  and  gently 
took  the  bottle  and  placed  it  out  of  reach. 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


431 


The  tempted  one,  with  a look  of  astonishment,  turned  and  gazed  the 
stranger  in  the  face,  but  said  nothing. 

They  all  left  the  hotel  and  resumed  their  journey.  Some  little  while 
after  the  train  moved  off  the  young  man  who  had  been  so  sorely  tempted 
sought  his  unknown  friend  and  said : 

“You  are  a stranger  to  me,  but  I thank  you;  you  saved  me  this  time 
and  I shall  hereafter  try  to  be  a stronger  man.” 

What  will  the  harvest  be? — Advocate. 

“WHAT  IT  FEEDS  ON.” 

The  rum  curse  still  rests  like  a deadly  curse  upon  our  enslaved  peo- 
ple. Thoroughly  intrenched  behind  the  political  platform  of  the  domi- 
nant political  party,  it  is  hurling  its  missiles  of  death  in  every  direction, 
and  even  such  brave,  clean  men  as  hold  many  of  our  highest  positions, 
for  some  reason,  dare  not  declare  war  against  it.  So  far  as  we  are 
personally  concerned,  no  political  party  east  or  west,  north  or  south, 
that  is  in  league  with  rum  can  have  our  support.  The  whisky  fiend 
works  such  havoc  that,  were  we  not  so  calloused  by  its  very  common- 
ness, we  would  be  shocked  beyond  expression.  An  exchange  furnishes 
the  following  list  of  victims  in  our  own  land,  not  speaking  of  the  much 
larger  wreckage  elsewhere ; 

2,500  smothered  babies. 

5.000  suicides. 

10.000  murderers. 

60.000  fallen  girls. 

100.000  paupers. 

3.000  murdered  wives. 

7.000  other  murders. 

40.000  widowed  mothers. 

100.000  orphaned  children. 

100,000  insane. 

100,000  criminals. 

100,000  drunkards  who  die  yearly. 

100,000  boys  who  take  the  place  of  the  dying. 

Untold  crimes,  misery,  woe,  want,  weeping,  wailing,  war,  shame, 
disgrace,  disease,  degradation,  debauchery,  destruction,  doath,  riot,  rev- 
elry, ruin  and  $2,000,000,000  in  cash. — Living  Water. 


432 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


A VILLAGE  DISGRACE. 

G is  a beautiful  village  nestling  in  the  hills  of  New  York  state. 

The  homes  are  well  painted.  The  lawn’s  smooth  velvet  is  bordered  with 
cement.  The  outward  appearance  would  indicate  a very  high  state  of 
intelligence. 

Some  time  ago,  a year  or  more,  the  proprietor  of  the  public  house, 
unlicensed,  was  indicted  by  the  grand  jury  for  selling  intoxicating  stuff. 
The  preacher  and  the  W.  C.  T.  U.  were  very  active  in  this  matter.  The 
entire  village  was  very  much  agitated. 

The  curbstone  philosophers,  as  they  kicked  their  heels  against  the 
dry  goods  boxes  and  spat  and  talked,  said;  “We’ll  show  them  preachers 
and  them  W.  C.  T.  U.  women  what  we  can  do ; we’ll  have  license,  we 
will !”  And  they  whittled  and  chewed  and  spat  and  talked. 

The  election  came  on  and  these  whittlers  and  spitters  carried  the 
place  for  license.  A number  of  “good”  men  were  induced  to  join  this 
crowd  and  the  preachers  and  W.  C.  T.  U.  were  literally  snowed  under. 

Now,  mark  the  sad  results:  in  one  year  the  beautiful  village  of 

G and  its  vicinity  have  sent  to  the  Keeley  Cure  twenty  subjects. 

Three  have  died,  the  direct  result  of  the  curse  of  the  license.  One  died 
in  the  cure.  Five  were  there  from  this  village  in  one  week,  and  the  pro- 
prietor cried  out  in  amazement;  “Have  you  no  churches  in  G ?” 

See  what  desolation  these  spitters  and  chewers  have  wrought  for 
that  beautiful  village  of  G . 

If  the  good  people  of  that  village  do  not  arouse  themselves  before 
the  next  election,  when  the  license  question  is  the  issue,  then  will  wives 
and  mothers  and  angels  weep,  and  devils  and  wicked  men  will  rejoice, 

and  again  the  question  will  be  asked:  “Are  there  no  churches  in  G ?” 

— Selected  by  Oklahoma  Star. 

THE  SERPENT  OF  DRINK. 

Whenever  the  serpent  of  strong  drink  coils  itself  around  a man,  he 
is  sure  to  go,  if  he  does  not  stop  short,  face  about  and  let  it  alone. 

I read  an  account  of  a young  man  some  years  ago,  who  went  from 
England  to  the  jungles  of  Africa  with  an  exploring  party,  and  while 
there  caught  a young  boa  constrictor,  and  for  amusement  he  used  to 
spend  his  spare  time  teaching  his  snake  to  do  many  wonderful  tricks. 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


433 


One  was  to  coil  itself  around  his  body,  and  as  it  grew  to  full  size  it 
reached  above  his  head  and  would  curve  over  and  kiss  his  face,  and  at  a 
signal  would  drop  to  the  ground.  So,  when  he  returned,  he  used  to  give 
exhibitions  and  became  very  popular  and  made  money,  and  with  that 
formed  the  habit  of  drinking.  One  night  he  was  to  give  an  exhibition 
in  Manchester.  The  scene  was  set  in  an  African  jungle.  A traveler 
came  in  view  from  one  side  of  the  stage  and  stopped  and  listened  and 
stood  spellbound.  Then  a rustle  was  heard  as  of  the  stealthily  moving 
of  some  heavy  object.  Presently  there  appeared  the  bead  of  a great  snake 
with  eyes  like  balls  of  fire,  and  it  crept  softly  to  the  man  and  w’ound 
itself  about  him,  up  and  over,  and  brought  its  head  in  line  wdth  his  face. 
The  man  gave  the  signal,  but  the  serpent  had  him  entirely  in  its  power, 
and  with  one  tightening  of  its  body,  crushed  the  life  out  of  its  victim. 

This  illustrates  the  drink  habit  as  well  as  anything  I ever  heard  of. 
.So  I would  say  to  you  that  have  never  started,  don’t  begin ; and  to  those 
that  have  begun,  stop  before  it  is  too  late. — Frank  C.  Cooper,  in  Michigan 
Christian  Advocate. 

WHY  KIPLING  QUIT  DRINKING  BEER. 

In  his  “American  Notes,”  page  121,  Rudyard  Kipling,  whose  stories 
and  poems  are  read  by  all  the  English-speaking  world,  tells  how,  in  a 
concert  hall  in  the  city  of  Buffalo,  he  saw  two  young  men  get  two  girls 
drunk  and  then  lead  them  reeling  down  a dark  street.  Mr.  Kipling  has 
not  been  a total  abstainer,  nor  have  his  writings  commended  temperance, 
but  of  that  scene  he  writes : 

“In  the  heart  of  Buffalo  there  stands  a magnificent  building  which 
the  population  do  innocently  style  a music  hall.  Everybody  comes  here 
of  an  evening  to  sit  around  the  little  tables  and  listen  to  a first-class 
orchestra.  Here  I went  with  a friend — poor  or  boor  is  the  man  who  can- 
not pick  up  a friend  for  a season  in  America — and  here  were  shown  the 
really  smart  folk  of  the  city. 

“One  sight  of  the  evening  was  a horror.  The  little  tragedy  played 
itself  out  at  a neighboring  table,  where  two  very  young  men  and  two 
very  young  women  were  seated.  It  did  not  strike  me  until  far  into  the 
evening  that  the  pimply  young  reprobates  were  making  the  girls  drunk. 
They  gave  them  red  wine  and  then  white,  and  their  voices  rose  with  the 
maiden  cheeks’  flushes.  I watched,  and  the  youths  drank  until  their 


434 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


speech  thickened  and  their  eyeballs  grew  watery.  It  was  sickening  to 
me,  because  I knew  what  was  going  to  happen.  My  friend  eyed  the 
group  and  said : 

“ ‘Maybe  they’re  children  of  respectable  people.  I hardly  think  that, 
though,  or  they  wouldn’t  be  allowed  out  with  no  better  escort  than  those 
boys.  And  yet  the  place  is  one  where  everybody  comes,  as  you  see. 
There  may  be  little  immoralities,  but  in  that  case  they  wouldn’t  be  so 
hopelessly  overcome  with  two  or  three  glasses  of  wine.  They  may 
be ’ 

“But  whatever  they  were  they  got  intolerably  drunk — there  in  that 
lovely  hall,  surrounded  by  the  best  of  Buffalo  society.  One  could  do 
nothing  except  invoke  the  judgment  of  Heaven  on  those  two  boys, 
themselves  half  sick  with  liquor. 

“At  the  close  of  the  musical  performance  the  quieter  maiden  laughed 
vacantly  and  protested  she  could  not  keep  her  feet.  The  four  linked 
arms  and  staggering,  flickered  out  into  the  street — drunk,  gentlemen 
and  ladies,  as  Davy’s  swine — drunk  as  lords.  They  disappeared  down  a 
side  avenue,  but  I could  hear  their  laughter  until  long  after  they  ■were 
out  of  sight.  And  they  were  all  children  of  16  or  17. 

“Then,  recanting  previous  opinions,  I became  a Prohibitionist. 
Better  is  it  that  a man  should  go  without  his  beer  in  public  places  and 
content  himself  with  swearing  at  the  narrowmindedness  of  the  majority; 
better  it  is  to  poison  the  inside  with  very  vile  temperance  drinks,  and  to 
buy  lager  furtively  at  back  doors,  than  to  bring  temptation  to  the  lips 
of  young  fools,  such  as  the  four  I had  seen.  I understand  now  why  the 
preachers  rage  against  drink.  I have  said,  ‘There  is  no  harm  in  it,  taken 
moderately,’  and  yet,  my  own  demand  for  beer  helped  to  send  those  two 
girls  reeling  down  the  dark  street  to — God  only  knows  what  end.  If 
liquor  is  worth  drinking,  it  is  worth  taking  a little  trouble  to  come  at 
— such  trouble  as  a man  will  undergo  to  compass  his  own  desires.  It 
is  not  good  that  we  shall  let  it  lie  before  the  eyes  of  children,  and  I have 
been  a fool  in  writing  to  the  contrary.’’ — Tract. 

GEN.  FRED  GRANT  ON  DRINK. 

Gen.  Frederick  D.  Grant,  in  an  interview  with  a representative  of 
the  Defender,  in  1906,  said : 

“Tell  the  young  men  through  your  paper  that  Gen.  Grant  does  not 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


435 


drink  a drop  of  liquor — ^has  not  for  eighteen  years ; because  he  is  afraid 
to  drink  it. 

“Now,  you  listen,”  continued  the  general.  “When  I was  a boy  at 
school,  and  at  West  Point,  I was  a pet  because  of  the  greatness  of  my 
father.  I was  given  every  opportunity  to  drink,  and  I did  drink — some. 
As  I got  older  and  mixed  with  men,  war-scarred  veterans  who  fought 
with  my  father  would  come  up  and,  for  the  sake  of  old  times,  ask  me  to 
celebrate  with  them  the  glory  of  past  events,  and  I did — some. 

“Then  when  I was  made  minister  to  Austria  the  customs  of  the 
country  and  my  official  position  almost  compelled  me  to  drink,  always. 
I tried  to  drink  with  extreme  moderation,  because  I knew  that  alcohol 
is  the  worst  poison  a man  could  take  into  his  system ; but  I found  out  it 
was  an  impossibility  to  drink  moderately. 

“I  could  not  say,  when  drink  was  placed  before  me;  ‘No,  I only 
drink  in  the  morning,’  or  at  certain  hours.  The  fact  that  I indulged  at 
all  compelled  me  to  drink  on  every  occasion  or  be  absurd. 

“For  that  reason,  because  moderate  drinking  is  a practical  impos- 
sibility, I became  an  absolute  teetotaler — a crank,  if  you  please.  I will 
not  allow  it  even  in  my  house.  When  a man  can  say,  ‘I  never  drink,’ 
he  never  has  to  drink,  is  never  urged  to  drink,  never  offends  by  not 
drinking;  at  least  that  is  my  experience.  Remember,  I do  not  say  ‘Mod- 
erate drinking  is  harmful.’  The  fact  is,  maybe,  it  isn’t  so  harmful,  but 
this  fact  is  indisputable — the  hard  drinker  was  once  a moderate  drinker, 
and  the  chances  are  all  against  a moderate  drinker  remaining  such,  and  I 
— well,  I,  for  one,  don’t  propose  to  take  such  chances. 

“I  knew  a man — may  be  two  or  three — who  died  moderate  drinkers. 
The  stuff  didn’t  seem  to  hurt  them  much.  But  the  poor  devils  that  I 
know,  scores  and  scores  of  them,  intelligent  men,  talented  and  all  that, 
who  have  been  ruined,  disgraced  by  the  greatest  curse  of  Christendom, 
drink ! Ah,  the  picture  is  a sad  one. 

“In  many  respects  a hard  drinker  is  safer  in  the  army  and  else- 
where, than  a moderate  drinker.  That  is,  one  who  gets  drunk  once  a 
year  or  so.  You  see,  a hard  drinker  is  known.  No  important  commis^- 
sion  is  ever  his  to  execute.  But  your  moderate  drinker,  why,  he’s  appar- 
ently reliable.  On  the  surface  he’s  all  right.  Consequently  he’s  given  an 
important  duty  to  perform.  Then  he  drinks.  He’s  sure  to,  just  at  that 
critical  time,  to  steady  his  nerves — infernal  idiocy — and  fails  ignondni- 
ously  to  himself  and  his  family  and  disastrously  to  others. 


436 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


“Give  me  the  sober  man,  the  absolute  teetotaler  every  time.  He’s 
dependable.  If  I had  the  greatest  appointive  powers  in  the  country,  no 
man  would  get  even  the  smallest  appointment  from  me  unless  he  showed 
proof  of  his  absolute  teetotalism. 

“If  I could,  by  offering  my  body  a sacrifice,  free  this  country  from 
this  fell  cancer,  the  demon  drink,  I’d  thank  the  Almighty  for  the  privi- 
ledge  of  doing-  it.” — Tract. 

WILSON  WHISKY. 

The  Chicago  Daily  American  of  November  23rd  contained  a very 
striking  advertisement.  One  whole  page  of  this  large  daily  contained 
just  two  words.  Directly  in  the  center  appeared  the  words,  “Wilson 
Whisky.”  As  we  looked  at  these  words,  and  at  the  large  white  vacant 
space  surrounding  them,  we  thought  what  chapters  might  be  printed 
thereon,  beginning  with  the  letters  of  the  alphabet.  Alms-houses  filled. 
Broken  hearts.  Criminals  produced.  Drunkard’s  doom.  Families  ruined. 
Groans  unnumbered.  Homes  scattered.  Idiots  born.  Jails  filled.  Killed 
by  rum.  Losses  how  great.  Murders  many,  Night  horrors  a plenty.  Or- 
phans by  scores.  Saloons,  yes,  indeed.  Thugs,  how  they  breed.  Villains 
by  scores,  Wasted  lives,  O yes,  “Xtra  pale”  faces  (in  death).  Youths  de- 
coyed and  then  destroyed. 

A reformed  man,  who  was  lecturing  in  Illinois,  sat  at  a hotel  dining 
table.  Some  guests  wished  to  call  attention  to  the  lecturer.  One  of 
them  lifted  a glass  of  water  and  holding  it  in  his  hand  said:  “Frank, 
what’s  the  difference  between  a glass  of  water  and  a glass  of  whisky?” 
The  other  in  a drawling  tone  of  voice  answered,  “T-e-n-c-e-n-t-s.” 
Would  to  God  that  were  all.  What  is  there  of  misery,  crime,  wretched- 
ness and  woe  that  is  not  traceable  to  the  demon  whisky.  What  but 
rum  can  at  one  and  the  same  time  ruin  man  in  body,  soul  and  spirit? 
Think  of  this.  Thou  red  syrup  of  hell.  Thou  enticing,  alluring,  destroy- 
ing, damning  fluid,  would  that  thou  wert  swept  from  this  fair  earth.  O, 
my  brother,  let  it  alone  ere  it  ruin  thee  for  time  and  eternity. 

CORRESPONDENCE  BETWEEN  THE  RUMSELLER  AND 

THE  DEVIL. 

To  His  Satanic  Majesty: 

Dear  Sir — I have  opened  apartments,  fitted  up  with  all  the  entice- 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


437 


merits  of  luxury,  for  the  sale  of  rum,  wine,  gin,  brandy,  beer,  and  all  their 
compounds.  Our  schemes,  though  different,  can  best  be  attained  by 
united  action.  I therefore  propose  a co-partnership.  All  I want  of  men 
is  their  money — all  the  rest  shall  be  yours. 

Bring  me  the  industrious,  the  respectable,  the  sober,  and  I will 
return  them  to  you  drunkards,  paupers  and  beggars. 

Bring  me  the  child,  and  I will  dash  to  earth  the  dearest  hopes  of 
the  father  and  mother. 

Bring  me  the  father  and  mother,  and  I will  plant  discord  between 
them,  and  make  them  a curse,  and  a reproach  to  their  children. 

Bring  me  the  young  man,  and  I will  ruin  his  character,  destroy 
his  health,  shorten  his  life,  and  blot  out  the  highest  and  purest  hopes 
of  youth. 

Bring  me  the  young  woman,  and  I will  destroy  her  virtue  and  re- 
turn her  to  you  a blasted  and  withered  thing — an  instrument  to  lead 
others  to  destruction. 

Bring  me  the  mechanic  and  laborer,  and  their  own  money — the 
hard-earned  fruit  of  toil — shall  be  made  to  plant  poverty,  vice  and 
ignorance  in  their  once  happy  homes. 

Bring  me  the  professed  follower  of  Christ,  and  I will  blight  and 
wither  every  devotional  feeling  of  his  heart,  and  send  him  forth  to  plant 
infidelity  and  crime  among  men. 

Bring  me  the  minister  of  the  Gospel,  and  I will  defile  the*  purity 
of  the  church  and  make  the  name  of  religion  a stench  in  the  land. 

Bring  me  the  lawyer  and  the  judge,  and  I will  pervert  justice, 
break  up  the  integrity  of  our  civil  institutions,  and  the  name  of  law  shall 
become  a hissing  and  a by-word  in  the  streets. 

Awaiting  your  reply,  I am,  yours  truly, 

A RUMSELLER. 

Reply. 

“My  dear  Brother — I address  you  by  this  endearing  appellation 
because  of  the  congeniality  of  our  spirits,  and  of  the  great  work  we  are 
both  engaged  in. 

I most  cordially  accept  your  proposals.  During  6,000  years  I have 
vainly  sought  for  a man  to  do  this  work — one  so  fully  after  my  own  heart 
as  you  are.  I ransacked  the  lowest  depths  of  hell  for  spirits  who  could 
do  for  me  the  whole  work  of  destruction.  But  little  success  attended 
their  efforts. 


438 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


I sent  out  the  demon,  Murder,  and  he  slew  a few- thousands,  most 
generally  the  hopeless  and  the  innocent.  But  his  mission  was  a failure. 

I bade  my  servant,  Lust,  go  forth.  He  led  innocent  youths  and 
beautiful  maidens  in  chains,  destroying  virtue,  wrecking  happiness, 
blasting  character,  and  causing  untimely  deaths  and  dishonored  graves. 
But  even  then,  many  of  the  victims  escaped  through  the  power  of  God, 
my  enemy. 

I sent  out  Avarice,  and  in  his  golden  chains  some  were  bound,  but 
men  soon  learned  to  hate  him  for  his  meanness,  and  comparatively  few 
fell  by  him. 

The  twin  brothers.  Pestilence  and  War,  went  forth,  and  Famine 
followed  behind  them,  but  these  slew  indiscriminately  the  old  and  the 
young,  women  and  children,  the  good  as  well  as  the  bad,  and  Heaven 
gained  as  many  accessions  as  Hell. 

In  sadness  my  Satanic  heart  mourned  over  the  probable  loss  of  my 
crown  and  kingdom,  as  I contemplated  the  tremendous  strides  which 
the  Gospel  of  Christ  was  making  in  saving  men  from  my  clutches.  But 
when  I received  your  welcome  letter  I shouted  till  the  welkin  of  Hell 
rang  again,  “Eureka!  Eureka!!  I have  found  him!!!  I have  found 
him!!!!” 

My  dear  friend,  I could  have  embraced  you  a thousand  times.  I 
have  given  orders  to  reserve  for  you  a place  nearest  my  person — the  most 
honorable  seat  in  pandemonium.  In  you  are  combined  all  the  qualifica- 
tions of  just  such  a friend  and  partner  as  I have  long  wished  for.  In 
your  business  are  all  the  elements  of  success.  Now  shall  my  throne  be 
established  forever.  Only  carry  out  your  designs,  and  you  shall  have 
money,  though  it  be  wrung  from  the  broken  hearts  of  helpless  women, 
and  from  the  mouths  of  innocent,  perishing  children.  Though  you  fill 
the  jails,  workhouses  and  poorhouses — though  you  crowd  the  insane 
asylums — though  you  make  murder,  incest  and  arson  to  abound,  and 
erect  scaffolds  and  gallows  in  every  village,  town  and  city,  you  shall  have 
money. 

I will  also  harden  your  heart  so  that  your  conscience  will  not  trouble 
you.  You  shall  think  yourself  a gentleman,  though  men  and  women — 
your  victims — shall  call  you  a demon.  You  shall  be  devoid  of  the  fear 
of  God,  the  horrors  of  the  grave,  and  the  solemnities  of  eternity;  and 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


439 


when  you  come  to  me  your  works  shall  produce  you  a reward  forever. 

Yours  to  the  very  last, 

LUCIFER. 

— Written  by  H.  S.  Parmalee. 

“NEW  YORK’S  WILDEST  ORGY.” 

An  Awful  Chapter  in  the  Story  of  the  Decline  and  Fall  of  American 
Greatness — The  Ruin  of  Wine — “Nothing  but  Wine.” 

(The  New  York  World  presents  to  its  readers  a picture  of  what  it 
calls  “The  wildest  orgy  that  ever  took  place  in  New  York.”  It  intro- 
duces the  story  with  the  statement  that  during  the  last  ten  years  there 
has  grown  up,  with  constant  increase,  a custom  of  celebrating  New 
Year’s  eve  in  New  York;  that  it  began  with  a few  people  having  late 
dinners  in  prominent  restaurants,  but  that  the  present  year  75,000  peo- 
ple attended  such  dinners  in  fashionable  New  York  hotels  and  restau- 
rants, and  spent  at  least  $600,000  for  champagne,  to  say  nothing  of  the 
cost  of  the  dinners  and  of  the  carriages.  The  World  says  that  it  sent 
to  see  that  orgy,  not  ministers,  nor  people  unaccustomed  to  the  ways 
of  New  York,  but  “an  experienced  newspaper  woman  and  a seasoned 
newspaper  man.”  Written  by  such  people  and  published  in  the  World, 
the  story  is  told  in  articles  from  which  the  following  are  brief  extrg.cts. 
The  Prohibition  papers  of  the  country  have  sometimes  taxed  their  cre- 
dulity in  their  descriptions  of  similar  scenes  and  have  frequently  been 
accused  of  exaggeration  and  misrepresentation.  It  is  not  now  recalled 
that  they  have  ever  told  a story  as  startling  as  that  here  recorded  by  a 
“purely  secular”  paper. — Editorial  Note.) 

Midnight.  Just  a few  women  were  drunk  here  and  there.  But  it 
was  a gentle  intoxication.  Nothing  but  wine.  True,  its  degrading 
effects  were  the  same  as  if  the  cause  were  the  slops  dispensed  in  a 
mixed  ale  dive,  but  here  were  women  in  costly  gowns,  bejeweled  with 
gems  of  price,  who  drank  nothing  but  wine. 

One  o’clock.  More  drunken  women  on  nothing  but  wine.  Two 
o’clock  and  more.  Sentimentally  maudlin  women  singing  songs,  bitter 
women  in  whom  nothing  but  wine  aroused  old  hates,  jealousies  and  ani- 
mosities. 

Borne  were  led  off,  some  staggered  off  to  the  retiring  rooms  deathly 
sick  on  nothing  but  wine. 


440 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


As  the  New  Year  grew  older  all  shame  or  concealment  died  down  in 
the  dressing  rooms.  The  doors  stood  open,  maids  and  attendants,  who 
also  had  had  nothing  but  wine,  worked  perfunctorily  with  ice  bags  and 
restoratives  over  the  retching  and  comatose. 

This  was  not  alone  in  one  place,  but  in  all  the  women’s  retiring 
rooms  in  every  great  hotel  and  restaurant  on  Broadway. 

It  was  the  slaughter  of  the  sophisticated  at  the  battle  of  the  bottle. 
Nothing  but  wine. 

The  worn-out  women  attendants  were  “choice”  now.  So  many 
were  on  their  hands  that  they  ministered  only  to  those  of  celebrity  or 
to  the  women  conscious  enough  to  tip  liberally  first. 

Women  got  as  far  as  the  door  and  fell  over  in  stupor  from  noth- 
ing but  wine.  There  they  lay.  “Down  and  out  and  all  in,”  said  the 
maids,  helping  only  those  who  could  still  speak  or  stagger. 

Jewels  fell  from  burnished  locks  or  from  gowns  torn  open  for  more 
air  or  easement  from  qualms.  Paris  dresses,  bedraggled  and  polluted, 
were  torn  and  disheveled  as  their  owners  were  dragged  out  of  the  gang- 
way. 

Drunken  men  clamored  at  the  doors,  “Wher’sh  my  wife?  She  lef’ 
me  an  hour  ago  !” 

“Aw,  come  in  and  pick  her  out!”  snapped  the  maids,  if  the  man 
gave  no  indication  of  coming  like  the  Greeks  with  gifts.  Did  he  wave 
a bill,  assistance  was  forthcoming  to  carry  his  lady  to  a cab. 

But  as  the  hours  crept  on  to  the  dawn  and  the  number  and  help- 
lessness of  the  drunken  women  increased,  and  when  all  semblance  of 
dressing  room  decorum  and  segregation  was  thrown  to  the  winds, 
drunken  escorts  came  in  the  doors  to  “pick  ’em  out.”  Sometimes  they 
picked  out  the  right  one,  byt  in  several  cases  they  picked  out  one  better 
of  looks  or  of  less  bulk  to  carry.  Who  cared  on  the  morning  following 
New  Year’s  even,  the  night  of  nothing  but  wine? 

Think  this  no  fanciful  picture.  Hold  up  your  hands  in  horror  no 
more  when  told  of  wretched  women  lifted  from  the  gutter  and  carried 
on  hand  barrows  to  the  station  houses  of  a Saturday  night  in  London, 
Liverpool,  Belfast,  and  other  towns  of  Britain  where  such  things  be. 

These  were  not  the  gin-swilling  wives  of  mechanics.  They  were 
New  York  women  “of  the  gay  set,”  many  that  say  of  themselves,  “We 
are  decent.”  They  did  not  stagger  out  from  the  public  bar  to  fall  in  the 
kennel,  stupefied  with  the  cheapest  and  vilest  of  liquors.  They  were 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


441 


“la<es,”  they  were  carried  out  to  cabs.  They  had  drunk  nothing  but 
wine. 

They  numbered  not  two  or  ten  or  even  twenty.  Their  name  was 
legion.  And  every  retiring  room  was  the  shameful  scene  of  nothing  but 
wine. — The  National  Prohibitionist. 

WHAT  WHISKEY  MADE  OF  A FATHER. 

A man  walked  into  his  home — a big,  strong  man  physically — and 
when  his  wife  met  him  he  knocked  her  down.  She  fled  shrieking  into  an 
inner  room  and  locked  the  door. 

Mary,  the  man’s  daughter,  a child  five  years  old,  fell  to  her  knees 
and  clung  to  him,  and  cried  out,  sobbing,  “Don’t  kill  mamma,  papa !” 

He  patted  her  head  and  told  her  to  get  her  brother,  Edward.  Ed- 
ward, a boy  of  six,  came. 

The  man  drew  a revolver  and  shot  his  two  little  weeping  and 
trembling  children.  Then  he  blew  his  own  brains  out. 

“He  was  a good  man,”  said  his  wife  to  the  police,  her  face  all  torn 
and  blackened  by  his  blows.  “He  was  a good  man,  and  he  never  treated 
me  badly  before.” 

What  suddenly  transformed  this  usually  good  husband  and  kind 
father  into  a ferocious  demon,  a murdering  wild  beast? 

Drink ! 

He  was  Erederick  Dietscher,  a driver  for  the  health  department,  and 
he  paid  out  the  hard-earned  money  that  should  have  gone  to  his  family, 
that  he  might  become  a slaughtering  lunatic.  Insanity  by  the  bottle, 
by  the  glass,  may  be  as  readily  purchased  as  are  matches  to  start  fires 
with. 

Some  men,  many  men,  can  play  with  alcohol.  They  can  warm  them- 
selves with  it  as  they  do  at  the  genial  heat  of  a grate ; but  to  such  as 
Dietscher  a glass  of  whisky  is  like  a match  to  a heap  of  hay — it  started 
a conflagration. 

Let  drink  alone,  young  man.  It  has  never  helped  anybody,  but  it 
has  ruined  and  is  ruining  millions  in  mind,  and  body  and  pocket.  It 
turns  kind-hearted  men  into  cruel  men,  loving  husbands  into  wife  beat- 
ers, fond  fathers  into  slayers  of  their  children. 

Look  at  Dietscher.  See  what  whisky  did  for  him  and  his.  That 
one  horror  should  be  enough  to  shock  countless  thousands  of  tipplers 


442 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


into  total  abstainers  for  the  rest  of  their  lives. — Selected  by  Herald  of  ; 
Light. 

STORY  OF  A JACKKNIFE. 

More  than  70  years  ago  a young  man  owned  a jackknife,  which  he  j 
sold  for  a gallon  of  rum,  and  by  retailing  it  by  the  glass  made  enough 
to  buy  two  gallons,  and  by  selling  that  he  was  enabled  to  increase  the 
quantity  he  purchased.  He  got  a barrel,  then  a cask,  and  at  last  a large 
stock,  and  having  a turn  for  business  and  industry  he  became  rich — 
and  when  he  died  he  left  $80,000  to  his  three  sons  and  one  daughter.  i 
The  daughter  married  a man,  who  spent  her  money,  and  then  she  died.  ' 
The  sons  entered  into  folly  and  extravagance  and  two  died  of  dissipation 
and  in  poverty.  The  last  of  the  family  lived  for  many  years  on  the 
charity  of  those  who  had  known  him  in  his  prosperity. 

He  died  a short  time  since,  suddenly,  in  a barn,  where  he  laid  him-  : 
self  to  take  a drunken  sleep.  On  his  pockets  being  examined,  all  that  . 
was  found  in  them  was  a string  and  a jackknife. 

So  a jackknife  began  and  ended  the  fortune  of  that  family. 

This  is  a true  story ; and  the  father,  who  bought  and  sold  rum,  no  ■ 
doubt  had  plenty  of  it  in  his  house  and  on  his  table.  In  giving  and  > 
recommending  it  to  others,  his  sons  learned  to  like  it,  and  so  it  hap-  . 
pened  according  to  the  true  proverb,  “What  is  got  on  the  devil’s  back  , 
goes  under  his  belly.”  i 

The  curse  of  God  is  on  ill-gotten  gain,  but  “the  blessing  of  the 
Lord,  it  maketh  rich,  and  he  addeth  no  sorrow  with  it.”  Prov.  10:22. — 
Safeguard. 

PLAYING  THE  FOOL. 

One  time  an  industrious  shoemaker  fell  into  the  habit  of  spending 
much  of  his  time  in  a saloon  near  his  shop.  When  his  wdfe  would  re-  I 
monstrate  with  him  for  ft,  he  would  say,  “Oh,  I’ve  just  been  down  a h 
little  while  playing  pool.” 

His  two-year-old  boy  heard  him,  and  said,  “Is  you  going  down  to  H 
play  fool,  papa?”  jj 

He  tried  in  vain  to  correct  this  word.  Day  by  day  he  would  ask  jj| 
his  father,  “Has  you  been  playing  fool?”  | 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


443 


It  made  a deep  impression  on  him,  but  his  mind  was  so  weakened 
by  drink,  that  he  constantly  yielded  to  the  temptation.  Finally  his  busi- 
ness was  gone,  and  he  found  himself  out  of  money,  flour  and  work. 
Idle  and  despondent,  he  exclaimed,  “No  work  again  today,  what  am  I 
to  do,  I do  not  know !” 

“Why,  papa,”  prattled  the  baby,  “can’t  you  go  and  pla)'-  fool  some 
more : 

“Oh,  hush,  you  poor  child,  that  is  just  the  trouble.  Papa  has  played 
the  fool  too  much  already.  Intemperance  always  makes  a man  play 
the  fool.” — Way  of  Faith. 

THE  COST  OF  A BOY. 

It  would  be  a good  thing  for  all  boys,  and  girls,  too,  to  get  some 
idea — in  real  figures — of  what  their  parents  do  for  them.  P.  B.  Frisk 
gave  a lecture  on  the  cost  of  a boy.  He  computes  that  at  the  age  of 
fifteen  a good  boy,  receiving  the  advantage  of  a city  life,  will  cost,  count- 
ing compound  interest  on  the  sum  invested,  not  less  than  $5,000.  At 
twenty-one  he  will  not  cost  any  more  unless  he  goes  to  college,  when 
it  will  cost  nearly  twice  as  much.  A bad  boy  costs  about  $10,000  at 
twenty-one,  if  he  does  not  go  to  college.  If  he  does,  it  costs  as  much 
more.  And  when  a man  has  put  $10,000  or  $20,000  into  a boy,  what  has 
he  a right  to  expect  of  him?  What  is  fair?  Is  it  fair  for  a boy  to  work 
himself  to  death,  to  run,  jump,  play  ball  or  do  in  such  a way  as  would 
disable  or  break  him  down?  Is  it  fair  for  him  to  despise  his  father  and 
neglect  his  mother?  Is  it  fair  for  him  to  ruin  himself  with  drink,  defile 
himself  with  tobacco,  or  staini  himself  with  sin?  Some  of  us  have  put 
about  all  of  our  property  into  boys  and  girls,  and  if  we  lose  them,  we 
shall  be  poor  indeed ; while  if  they  do  well,  we  shall  be  repaid  a hundred 
fold.  Boys,  what  do  you  think  about  the  matter? — Selected  by  Way  of 
Faith. 

A MOTHER’S  INFLUENCE. 

In  a railway  car  a man  about  sixty  years  old  came  to  sit  beside  me. 
He  had  heard  me  lecture  the  evening  before  on  temperance.  “I  am  the 
master  of  a ship,”  said  he,  “sailing  out  of  New  York,  and  have  just  re- 
turned from  my  fiftieth  voyage  across  the  Atlantic.  About  thirty  years 


444 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


ago  I was  a sot,  shipped  while  dead  drunk,  and  was  carried  on  board  like 
a log.  When  I came  to,  the  captain  asked  me,  ‘De  you  remember  your 
mother?’  I told  him  she  died  before  I could  remember.  ‘Well,’  said 
he,  ‘I  am  a Vermont  man.  When  I was  young  I was  crazy  to  go  to  sea. 
At  last  my  mother  consented  I should  seek  my  fortune.  “My  boy,”  she 
said,  “I  don't  know  much  about  towns,  and  I never  saw  the  sea,  but  they 
tell  me  they  make  thousands  of  drunkards.  Now,  promise  me  you’ll 
never  drink  a drop  of  liquor.”  He  said,  ‘I  laid  my  hands  in  her’s  and 
promised,  as  I looked  into  her  eyes  for  the  last  time.  She  died  soon  after. 
I’ve  been  on  every  sea,  seen  the  worst  kind  of  life  and  men — they  laughed 
at  me  as  a milksop  and  wanted  to  know  if  I was  a coward.  But  when 
they  offered  me  liquor  I saw  my  mother’s  pleading  face  and  I never 
drank  a drop.  It  has  been  my  sheet  anchor;  I owe  it  all  to  that.  Would 
you  like  to  take  that  pledge?’  said  he.”  My  companion  took  it,  and  he 
added,  “It  has  saved  me.  I have  a fine  ship,  wife  and  children  at  home, 
and  I have  helped  others.” 

That  earnest  mother  saved  two  men  to  virtue  and  usefulness — how 
many  more  He  who  sees  all  alone  can  tell.- — Wendell  Phillips. 

THE  DYING  CHILD’S  PRAYER  FOR  HER  DRUNKEN  FATHER. 

A child  from  a poor  family  had  an  intemperate  father,  who  often 
used  to  abuse  his  wife  and  children.  This  child  had  been  to  Sunday 
school — had  become  pious.  The  physician  told  the  father  that  his  little 
girl  would  die.  No!  he  did  not  believe  it.  Yes,  she  will — she  must  die 
in  a few  hours.  The  father  flew  to  the  bedside ; would  not  part  with  her, 
he  said. 

“Yes,  father,  you  must  part  with  me,  I am  going  to  Jesus.  Promise 
me  two  things.  One  is,  that  you  won’t  abuse  mother  any  more,  and  \H11 
drink  no  more  whisky.” 

He  promised  in  a solemn,  steady  manner.  The  little  girl’s  face 
lighted  up  with  joy. 

“The  other  thing  is,  promise  me  that  you  will  pray,”  said  the  child. 

“I  cannot  pray ; don’t  know  how,”  said  the  poor  man. 

“Father,  kneel  down,  please.  There,  take  the  words  from  me,  I will 
pray;  I learned  how  to  pray  at  Sunday  school,  and  God  has  taught  me 
how  to  pray,  too;  my  heart  prays,  you  must  let  your  heart  pray.  Now 
say  the  words.” 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


445 


And  she  began  in  her  simple  language  to  pray  to  the  Savior  of  sin- 
ners. After  a little  while  he  began  to  repeat  after  her;  as  he  went  on  his 
heart  was  interested,  and  he  broke  out  into  an  earnest  prayer  for  him- 
self ; bewailed  his  sins,  confessed  and  promised  to  forsake  them ; entered 
into  a covenant  with  God ; light  broke  out  upon  him  in  his  darkness ; how 
long  he  prayed  he  did  not  know;  he  seemed  to  have  forgotten  his  child 
fn  prayer.  When  he  came  to  himself  he  raised  his  head  from  the  bed 
on  which  he  had  rested  it ; there  lay  the  little  speaker,  a lovely  smile  was 
upon  the  face,  her  little  hand  was  in  that  of  the  father,  but  she  had  gone 
to  be  among  the  angels. — Power  of  Prayer,  by  Prime. 

WHY  HE  QUIT  DRINKING. 

A professional  gentleman,  who  was  accustomed  to  take  his  morn- 
ing glass,  stepped  into  a saloon,  and,  going  up  to  the  bar,  called  for 
whisky.  A seedy  individual  stepped  up  to  him  and  said: 

“I  say,  squire,  can’t  you  ask  an  unfortunate  fellow  to  join  you?” 

He  was  annoyed  by  the  man’s  familiarity  and  roughly  told  him : 

“I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  drinking  with  tramps.” 

The  tramp  replied: 

“You  need  not  be  so  cranky  and  high-minded,  my  friend).  I venture 
to  say  that  I am  of  just  as  good  a family  as  you  are,  have  just  as  good 
an  education,  and  before  I took  to  drink  was  just  as  respectable  as  you 
are.  What  is  more,  I always  knew -how  to  act  the  gentleman.  Take  my 
word  for  it,  you  stick  to  John  Barleycorn,  and  he  will  bring  you  to  just 
the  same  place  as  I am.” 

Struck  with  his  words,  the  gentleman  set  down  his  glass  and  turned 
to  look  at  him.  His  eyes  were  bloodshot,  his  face  bloated,  his  boots  mis- 
mated,  his  clothing  filthy. 

“Then  it  was  drink  that  made  you  like  this?” 

“Yes,  it  was,  and  it  will  bring  you  to  the  same  if  you  stick  to  it.” 
j Picking  up  his  untouched  glass,  he  poured  the  contents  upon  the 
floor  and  said,  “Then  it’s  time  I quit,’  and  left  the  saloon,  never  to  enter  it 
again. — Selected  by  Sunday  School  Messenger. 

I’LL  TAKE  WHAT  FATHER  TAKES. 

Near  the  close  of  a lovely  June  day  a company  of  brilliant  men 


446 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


gathered  at  a garden  banquet.  The  pavilion  was  set  among  beds  of 
flowers,  and  opened  toward  the  west. 

The  table  was  a dream  of  beauty  with  its  fruits  and  flowers,  its 
flashing  glass  and  glittering  silver.  Some  of  the  noblest  of  the  land 
sat  around  the  board.  Among  them  was  an  eager,  bright-eyed  boy, 
brought  to  his  first  club  dinner  by  his  father,  an  honored  judge. 

Wit  and  wisdom  sparkled  back  and  forth  and  wine  gleamed  like 
ruby  and  amber.  The  boy  saw  and  heard  everything.  This  was  an 
enchanted  land.  For  the  first  time  he  looked  upon  the  faces  and  heard 
the  voices  of  great  men  who  had  been  his  heroes  from  afar.  Their 
words,  their  bearing,  their  dress,  were  full  of  interest.  Yet  of  all  this 
goodly  company,  to  him  his  father  was  the  king. 

An  empty  glass  stood  by  his  plate — a dainty  shell  with  points  that 
caught  the  light  like  diamonds.  A waiter  stopped  beside  him  with  a 
tray  of  costly  drinks  and  named  them  over  glibly,  questioning:  “What 
will  you  take?” 

The  judge  was  an  abstainer  at  home.  The  boy  had  never  tasted 
wine.  The  names  were  strange  to  him.  But  he  said  with  ready  con- 
fidence, “I’ll  take  what  father  takes.”  The  father  heard.  The  glass  in 
his  uplifted  hand  shed  over  it  a crimson  light  like  blood.  All  eyes 
were  upon  him.  Was  he  afraid  to  drink?  In  a swift  vision  he  saw 
the  serpent  in  the  cup.  For  policy,  for  pride,  for  social  custom  should 
he  set  this  deadly  thing  upon  his  best  beloved?  There  was  a hush  as 
he  set  down  the  untasted  wine  and  said  distinctly,  “I’ll  take  water — 
cold  water.” — Crusader’s  Monthly. 

A SHARP  REJOINDER. 

Some  years  ago  the  Rev.  E.  Klumph,  while  seated  in  a village  store, 
accosted  a saloonkeeper  with  the  remark: 

“Come  over  to  the  church  to-night  and  hear  me  lecture  on  tem- 
perance.” 

The  reply  was : “I  won’t ; you  said  whiskey-sellers  were  robbers.” 

“I  didn’t,”  was  the  reply  of  Mr.  Klumph. 

“What  did  you  say?” 

“I  said  you  were  worse  than  a robber.  I said  you  took  my  innocent 
boy  and  sent  me  home  a maudlin  fool.  I said  you  took  an  intelligent 
man  and  sent  a lunatic  to  the  asylum.  I said  you  took  a respected 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


447 


citizen  and  sent  a criminal  to  prison.  I said  you  took  a kind  father  and 
sent  a fiend  to  throw  his  family  into  the  street.  I said  you  took  a 
loving  husband  and  sent  a demon  to  kick  his  wife.  I said  you  took  the 
immortal  soul  and  sent  it  to  hell.  I said  you  were  worse  than  a robber.” 
Sharp,  and  yet  terribly  true. — National  Temperance  Advocate. 

NERVELESS  DRINKERS. 

“I  take  a drink  when  I feel  like  it,”  said  a Canal  Street  business 
man,  “and  can’t  see  that  it  has  ever  done  me  any  harm,  but  I witnessed 
a little  episode  this  morning  that  has  haunted  me  ever  since,  and  has 
forced  me  to  do  a whole  lot  of  thinking. 

“I  had  stepped  into  a bar  very  early  to  get  a cocktail,  and  while  it 
was  being  compounded,  a middle-aged  gentleman  came  and  asked  one 
of  the  attendants  to  pour  him  out  a little  plain  whiskey.  He  was  care- 
fully dressed,  and  had  all  the  marks  of  refinement  and  good  breeding, 
and  his  request  was  so  unusual  that  I turned  involuntarily  to  look  at 
him.  The  bartender  exhibited  no  surprise,  and  placed  half  of  a small 
glass  of  whiskey  at  his  elbow,  but  the  instant  he  stretched  out  his  hand, 
I saw  that  the  man  was  on  the  verge  of  nervous  collapse.  He  shook 
like  an  aspen,  and  when  he  finally  managed  to  seize  the  tumbler,  its 
contents  flew  in  every  direction.  ‘Let  me  assist  you.  Colonel,’  said  the 
bartender  quietly,  and  pouring  out  another  drink,  he  leaned  over  and 
held  it  to  his  lips.  The  man  said  nothing,  but  gave  him  a haggered  look 
that  went  into  my  heart  like  a knife.  My  God ! what  a look ! Shame, 
humiliation  and  abject  animal  terror.  It  started  the  sweat  on  me  like 
water.  Well,  he  drank  his  whiskey,  stood  still  for  a minute  as  if 
gathering  himself  together,  and  sauntered  out  as  cool  as  ever. 

“I  asked  the  bartender  if  he  had  many  such  customers,  and  he 
laughed.  ‘Lots  of  ’em,’  he  said.  ‘There  isn’t  a first-class  bar  in  town,’ 
he  went  on,  ‘that  don’t  patch  up  a few  old  boys  like  that  every  morning. 
They  are  not  drunkards,  but  they’ve  been  at  it  so  many  years  that  their 
nerves  are  gone,  and,  although  they  don’t  know  it,  they  are  working 
on  absolutely  nothing  but  whiskey.  As  soon  as  they  get  a little  fresh 
fuel  in  the  morning,  they  are  all  right,  but  they  come  in  scared  and 
out  of  their  wits,  and  thinking  they’re  going  to  drop  dead  every  minute. 
I’ll  bet  that  gentleman  you  saw  can  sign  his  name  now  without  a 
quiver.’  I walked  out  reflecting.” — Way  of  Faith. 


448 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


THEY  HOLD  THE  KEY. 


Rev.  Dr.  French,  of  the  Park  Presbyterian  Church,  Newark,  in 
preaching  on  “Our  Creed”  for  1898,  paid  the  following  compliment  to  the 
influence  of  women.  He  said : 

“You  may  laugh,  deny  or  deride,  as  you  please,  but  we  announce  ■, 
as  our  solemn  conviction  that  the  young  maidens  of  this  country  and 
generation  hold  the  key  to  the  solution  of  the  whole  question  of  tern- 
perance  and  intemperance  among  our  young  men;  that  their  combined 
and  resolute  action,  if  it  could  be  secured,  would  do  more  to  stop  the 
drinking  habit  of  young  men  and  shut  up  the  saloons  than  all  the  tem- 
perance societies,  crusades  and  pledges  in  the  world. 

“If  the  marriageable  young  women  would  enter  into  a solemn 
covenant  with  themselves  and  with  each  other  that  they  would  never 
accept  the  attentions,  with  view  to  marriage,  of  any  young  men  who 
frequent  the  saloon  or  are  in  the  habit  of  tippling,  and  then  would 
keep  their  vow,  there  would  be  a revolution  in  society  to  which  the 
Reformation  in  Europe  would  seem  but  a ripple. 

“Let  the  young  maidens  say,  ‘Never  will  we  put  our  hearts,  our 
hopes,  our  happiness  into  the  keeping  of  young  men  who,  soon  after  , 
the  honeymoon  is  past,  will  spend  their  earnings  in  the  saloon  and  their 
evenings  at  the  club,  leaving  us  to  loneliness,  and  only  to  certain  misery !’ 
Let  them  say,,  ‘As  soon  would  we  have  the  tongue  of  a viper  touch  our 
lips  as  accept  the  proffered  kiss  of  any  young  man  whose  breath  is 
redolent  of  whiskey  or  brandy !’ 

“Let  them  say  to  the  dashing  young  fellows,  however  rich  or  hand- 
some or  polite  or  suave  they  may  be ; ‘No,  sir ! When  you  show  your- 
selves the  men  who  believe  that  a woman’s  life  and  heart  and  happiness 
are  too  holy  things  to  be  trifled  with,  and  worth  infinitely  more  than  ■ 
the  indulgence  of  your  selfish  and  debasing  appetites,  then  come  to 
us  like  true  men,  and  we  will  give  you  that  which  is  better  than  a 
dozen  fortunes — a true,  faithful  loving  woman’s  heart  that  will  cleave 
to  yours  until  you  die.’ 

“With  all  my  soul,  I believe  that  such  a coalition  among  the  young 
women  of  America  would  stand  next  to  the  universal  grace  of  God,  in 
its  power  to  banish  intemperance  from  our  land,  and  make  it  the 
paradise  regained  of  virtue  and  moral  beauty.” — National  Advocate. 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


449 


CONQUERED  BY  A DRINKING  CUP. 

Alexander  the  Great  made  an  imperial  banquet  at  Babylon,  and 
though  he  had  been  drinking  the  health  of  guests  all  one  night,  and  all 
the  next  day,  the  second  night  he  had  twenty  guests,  and  he  drank 
the  health  of  each  separately.  Then  calling  for  the  cup  of  Hercules,  the 
giant,  a monster  cup,  he  filled  and  drained  it  twice  to  show  his  endurance ; 
but  as  he  finished  the  last  draught  from  the  cup  of  Hercules,  the  giant, 
he  dropped  in  a fit,  from  which  he  never  recovered. 

Alexander,  who  conquered  Sardis,  and  conquered  Halicarnassus, 
and  conquered  Asia,  and  conquered  the  world,  could  not  conquer  him- 
self. And  there  is  a threatening  peril  that  this  good  land'  of  ours,  having 
conquered  all  with  whom  it  has  gone  into  battle,  may  yet  be  overthrown 
by  the  cup  of  the  giant  evil  of  our  land,  that  Hercules  of  infamy — strong 
drink.  Do  not  let  the  staggering  embruted  host  of  drunkards  go  into  the 
next  century  looking  for  insane  asylums,  alms-houses,  and  delirium 
tremens,  and  dishonored  graves. — Talmage. 

A POLICEMAN’S  TESTIMONY. 

A number  of  young  men  were  once  sitting  around  the  fire  in  the 
waiting-room  at  the  Normanton  Station  of  the  Midland  Railway, 
England,  talking  about  total  abstinence  societies.  Just  then  a police- 
man came  in  with  a prisoner  in  handcuffs.  He  listened  to  the  young- 
men’s  conversation,  but  did  not  give  any  opinion.  There  was  also  in  the 
room,  Mr.  McDonald,  a minister  of  the  gospel,  who,  hearing  what  the 
young  men  were  saying,  stepped  up  to  the  policeman  and  said: 

“Pray,  sir,  what  have  you  got  to  say  about  temperance?” 

The  policeman  replied : 

“Why,  all  I’ve  got  to  say  is  that  I never  took  a teetotaler  to  York 
Castle  (prison)  in  my  life,  nor  to  Wakefield  House  of  Correction  either.” 
— Selected  by  Church  Herald. 

WHISKEY’S  DEADLY  WORK. 

Burned  so  that  he  is  suffering  agonies,  and  will  be  scarred  hideously 
for  life,  a handsome,  intelligent  little  boy  of  seven  years  lies  moaning  in 
Bellevue  hospital. 

How  did  the  child  receive  these  horrible  burns? 


450 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


A woman,  at  2 o’clock  in  the  morning,  took  the  lids  from  the  kitchen  u 
stove  and  held  the  boy's  face  over  the  fire  till  his  cheek  was  scorched  to  I 
the  bone  and  one  eye  was  so  seared  that  he  will  never  see  with  it  again.  ^ 

To  the  neighbors  and  police  who  broke  in  the  door  the  screaming  4 
little  one  pointed  to  a woman  lying  on  a lounge  and  said  that  she  had  I 
done  this  awful  thing.  He  had  annoyed  her  by  not  going  to  sleep.  * 

The  woman  was  the  child’s  mother! 

What  had  driven  mother  love  out  and  let  fiendish  cruelty  and  fury  ^ 
into  that  woman’s  heart? 

Whiskey! 

Whiskey,  always  whiskey.  It  works  the  devil’s  miracles  for  him  by  1 
transforming  human  beings  into  demons. 

The  scarred  and  tortured  child  lying  on  the  hospital  cot  asks  for  his  ^ 
mother,  cries  for  her.  He  fears  that  something  will  be  done  to  her  for 
what  she  did  to  him.  She  was  a loving  and  kind  mother  to  her  boy  i 
when  she  was  herself — all  the  neighbors  testify  to  that.  But  trouble,  } 
separation  from  her  husband  and  the  strain  of  making  a poor  livelihood  j 
as  seamstress  caused  her  to  seek  the  false  solace  of  drink,  and  drink  j; 
drove  her  in  madness  to  a crime  of  which  she  would  have  been  less  -1 
capable  than  of  suicide  when  in  her  sober  senses. 

Willie  Goggin’s  Story. 

“Mamma  built  the  fire  with  wood  and  kerosene. 

“Then  she  left  the  lid  off  the  stove  and  laid  me  on  the  fire  on  ray  1 

face. 

“Mamma  had  been  drinking  all  the  evening  with  another  lady  in 
the  flat. 

“They  went  to  several  places  and  took  me  along.  I was  so  tired  and  t 
sleepy  when  we  came  home_I  just  could  not  stay  awake.  So  I sat  do-wn 
in  the  rocking  chair  and  fell  asleep,  w'hile  mamma  built  the  fire. 

“I  woke  up  when  she  had  the  wood  and  kerosene  in  the  stove,  and  i 
began  to  take  off  my  shoes  and  stockings.  The  can,  almost  full  of  oil,  ' 
was  setting  on  the  floor.  Mother  fell  over  it  and  spilled  the  oil  all  over  > 
the  floor. 

“The  fire  was  burning  hard  and  the  lids  were  off  the  stove.  I don’t  < 
know  whether  mamma  was  angry  ^vith  me  or  was  angry  just  because  ■ 
she  fell  down,  but  she  picked  me  right  up  and  laid  me  flat  on  top  of  the  : 
stove  on  my  face.  . She  was  swearing. 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


451 


“She  had  the  door  locked,  and  put  chairs  in  front  of  it,  so  that  no 
one  could  come  into  the  room.” 

Mrs.  Margaret  Jaconi’s  Story  of  How  She  Saved  Willie  Goggin. 

“On  hearing  Willie’s  screams  I rushed  to  the  Goggin  rooms  and 
took  him  from  his  mother.  Her  mouth  was  set  in  a grim,  hard  line,  her 
face  was  deathly  white,  her  eyes  were  blazing  with  rage. 

“She  fought  like  a tigress^  because  I came  between  her  and  her  child. 
She  flung  me  out  at  the  doorway  and  locked  the  door. 

“I  burst  it  open  and  she  attacked  me. 

“She  said  the  child  was  hers ; she  would  do  as  she  pleased  with 
him;  I should  not  interfere. 

“She  had  rubbed  all  the  burned  skin  off  around  his  mouth,  in  the 
effort  to  close  it  with  her  hand,  and  stop  his  screams.  His  condition  was 
pitiable. 

“I  was  determined  to  take  that  child  from  her  if  she  killed  me.  We 
rolled  all  over  the  floor.  I was  fighting  for  Willie  and  I would  do  any- 
thing. At  last  I dragged  her  into  the  corner  and  got  the  child. 

“I  took  him  downstairs,  called  a policeman,  who  took  charge  of  Mrs. 
Goggin,  and  had  Willie  sent  to  the  hospital  for  proper  treatment.” 

The  Husband’s  Story. 

“Four  times  did  I make  a home  for  her,”  said  the  husband.  “But 
the  children  were  neglected.  The  meals  were  uncooked.  Her  love  for 
us  died.  It  was  all  the  fault  of  liquor.” 

And  so  they  parted.  The  children  were  placed  in  the  Catholic  Pro- 
tectory by  the  father. 

One  day,  two  months  ago,  the  mother  stole  little  Willie  from  the 
Protectory  and  brought  him  to  her  home. 

Sometimes  she  was  good  to  him,  but  when  drinking,  her  worst  side 
was  almost  uppermost. 

All  the  mother  in  her  died.  Even  in  her  kindest  moods  her  love  was 
purely  selfish.  She  simply  looked  on  her  child  as  her  property  to  do  with 
as  she  willed. 

And  so,  when  the  little  Italian  caretaker  with  the  expression  of  the 
Madonna  in  her  dusky  eyes  went  to  Willie’s  rescue  the  mother  would 
have  killed  her  if  she  could. 

The  most  pitiable  part  of  the  awful  story  is  that  as  the  mother  re- 
flects on  it  all,  there  is  neither  remorse  nor  repentance. 


452  STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


And  one  hundred  and  thirty  licenses  granted  in  Clearfield  county  i 
to  grind  such  grists  as  this ! Who  can  tell  what  pandemonium  of  inhu-  ' 
manity  will  be  let  loose  during  the  coming  year. — The  New  York  Journal. 

ALCOHOL  AHEAD. 

A thick-set,  ugly-looking  fellow  was  seated  on  a bench  in  the  public  i 
park  and  seemed  to  be  reading  some  writing  on  a sheet  of  paper  which  i 
he  held  in  his  hand. 

“You  seem  to  be  very  much  interested  in  your  writing,”  I said. 

“Yes;  I’ve  been  figuring  my  accounts  with  old  alcohol  to  see  how  - 
we  stand,” 

“And  he  comes  out  ahead,  I suppose?” 

“Every  time,  and  he  has  lied  like  sixty.” 

“How  did  you  come  to  have  dealings  with  him  in  the  first  place?” 

“That’s  what  I’ve  been  writing.  You  see,  he  promised  to  make  i 
a man  of  me,  but  he  made  me  a beast.  Then  he  said  he  would  brace  me  ' 
up,  but  he  made  me  go  staggering  around,  and  then  threw  me  into  the  | 
ditch.  He  said  I must  drink  to  be  social.  Then  he  made  me  quarrel  I 
with  my  best  friends  and  be  the  laughing  stock  of  my  enemies.  He  | 
gave  me  a black  eye  and  a broken  nose.  Then  I drank  for  the  good  of  | 
my  health.  He  ruined  the  little  I had  and  left  me  as  sick  as  a dog.”  j 

“Of  course.” 

“He  said  he  would  warm  me  up,  and  I was  soon  nearly  frozen  to  | 
death.  He  said  he  would  steady  my  nerves,  but  instead  he  gave  me  - 
delirium  tremens.  He  said  he  would  give  me  strength,  and  he  made  me 
helpless.”  : 

“To  be  sure.”  t 

“He  promised  me  courage.  Then  he  made  me  a coward,  for  I beat  < 
my  sick  wife  and  kicked  my  little  sick  child.  He  said  he  would  brighten  1 
my  wits,  but  instead  he  made  me  act  like  a fool  and  talk  like  an  idiot,  i 
He  promised  to  make  a gentleman  of  me,  but  he  made  me  a tramp.”— 
Christian  Work. 

WANTED:  BOYS  FOR  CUSTOMERS. 

Mr.  J.  B.  Green,  superintendent  of  the  IMethodist  Episcopal  Sunday  ; 
School  of  Opelika,  Ala.,  on  a recent  temperance  Sunday  used  the  follow-  i 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


453 


ing  with  telling  effect,  putting  it  in  the  mouths  of  the  saloons  of  that 
place : 

Wanted. 

One  hundred  boys  for  new  customers.  Most  of  our  old  customers 
are  rapidly  dropping  out. 

Ten  committed  suicide  last  week. 

Twenty  are  in  jail — eight  are  in  the  chain-gang. 

Fifteen  were  sent  to  the  poorhouse — ^^one  was  hanged. 

Three  were  sent  to  the  insane  asylum. 

Most  of  the  balance  ain’t  worth  fooling  with — they’ve  got  no  money. 

We  are  just  obliged  to  have  new  customers — fresh,  young  blood, 
or  we  will  have  to  shut  up  shop. 

Don’t  make  any  difference  whose  boy  you  are — we  need  you.  You 
will  be  welcome. 

If  you  once  get  started  with  us,  we  guarantee  to  hold  you.  Our 
goods  are  sure. 

Come  early — stay  late. — American  Issue. 

WHO  AM  I?  WHISKY,  “THAT’S  ALL.” 

The  following  comes  from  the  Washington  County  (Ala.)  News, 
and  it  gives  the  testimony  of  the  glass  on  its  own  behalf;  let  it  speak 
for  itself : 

“I  am  whisky,  that’s  what  I am — not  Mr.  Whisky,  nor  Colonel 
Whisky,  but  Plain  Old  Whisky.  I have  several  aliases  and  pet  names, 
such  as  “bug  juice,”  “corn  juice,”  “old  rye,”  “fire  water,”  and  “oil  of 
joy.”  Some  folks  call  me  “Soul  Destroyer,”  “Liquid  Murder,”  “Linger- 
ing Death,”  and  “Rectified  Ruin.”  I am  all  of  these  and  more.  I am 
“Family  Disturbance,”  “Liquid  Sin,”  “Bottled  Death,”  “Crime  Pro- 
voker,” “Liquid  Pizen.”  When  you  hear  a man  call  for  “O,  Be  Joyful,” 
“Red  Liquor,”  “Snake  Bite,”  “The  Cup  that  Cheers,”  or  “John  Barley 
Corn,”  you  may  bet  your  boots  that  it’s  me  he’s  looking  for.  Ask  thr 
bartender  for  “Tangle  Foot,”  “Eye  Opener,”  “Night  Cap,’^  “Jersey 
Lightning,”  “Toddy,”  “Mountain  Dew,”  “Gray,”  or  “Gooze,”  and  he 
will  set  me  out.  If  it  is  a “Flowing  Bowl,”  “Nose  Paint,”  or  “Rot  Gut,” 
you  are  seeking,  I am  it.  I am  the  whole  push.  I am  bad  medicine, 
that’s  what  I am.  Don’t  monkey  with  me  unless  you  are  looking  for 
trouble.  When  I get  my  clutches  on  a man,  he’s  my  meat.  Call  me 


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STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


what  you  will,  I work  on  the  same  lines.  Before  you  tackle  me,  have 
your  life  and  soul  insured.  All  are  my  fish  that  fall  in  my  net.  Rich  or 
poor,  high  or  low,  bound  or  free.  I am  no  respecter  of  persons-^man  i 
or  woman,  boy  or  girl,  are  all  the  same  to  me.  I rob  them  of  their 
honor,  self-respect,  money,  home.  I make  widows  and  orphans,  paupers 
and  criminals,  thieves  and  gamblers.  Don’t  monkey  with  me,  for  I am 
Whisky.” 

THE  ITEM  THAT  TOLD  | 

I 

A certain  gentleman  tells  a story  in  connection  with  an  agency  that,  '| 
some  years  ago,  kept  a record  of  the  position  and  standing  of  every  j 
business  man  in  the  country.  ; 

The  record  kept  by  this  house  gave  detailed  information,  not  only  i 
of  the  amount  of  property  which  the  parties  owned,  but  also  their  i 
standing  in  regard  to  punctuality,  integrity,  temperance,  morals,  etc.  ! 

The  story  relates  that  a certain  firm  of  four  men  in  Boston  were  i 
c-onsidered  all  right.  They  were  rich,  prosperous,  young  and  prompt,  i 
A friend  of  this  firm  had  a curiosity  to  see  how  they  were  rated,  and  i 
found  these  facts  on  the  book.  He  was  satisfied  as  he  read.  But,  at  the  l 
end  of  the  account,  these  words  were  added:  ^ 

“But  they  all  drink.” 

A few  years  later,  the  one  looking  up  that  record  found  that  two 
of  the  firm  were  dead,  a third  was  a drunkard,  and  the  fourth  was  poor  , 
and  dependent  partly  upon  charity.  So  it  would  seem  that  that  one  i 
item  at  the  end  of  their  rating  was  the  most  important  and  significant  : 
of  all  the  facts  collected  and  embodied  in  their  rating. — Selected. 

A HORRIBLE  IDEA. 

According  to  a story  which  had  been  floating  around  through  the  ; 
newspapers,  there  are  circumstances  under  which  a “light  wine”  can  by  ' 
no  means  be  called  a light  drink. 

An  Easterner,  riding  on  a mail  stage  in  Northern  Colorado,  was  i 
entertained  by  a dialogue  which  was  sustained  upon  the  one  side  by  the 
driver  and  upon  the  other  by  an  elderly  passenger,  evidently  a native 
of  the  region. 

“I  understand  you’re  temperance,”  began  the  driver, 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


455 


“Yes,  I’m  pretty  strong  against  liquor,”  returned  the  other.  “I’ve 
been  set  against  it  now  thirty-five  years.” 

“Scared  it  will  ruin  your  health?” 

“Yes,  but  that  isn’t  the  main  thing.” 

“Perhaps  it  don’t  agree  with  you?”  ventured  the  driver. 

“Well,  it  really  don’t  agree  with  anybody.  But  that  ain’t  it,  either. 
The  thing  that  sets  me  against  it  is  a horrible  idea.” 

“A  horrible  idea!  What  is  it?” 

“Well,  thirty-five  years  ago  I was  sitting  in  a hotel  in  Denver  with  a 
friend  of  mine,  and  I says,  ‘Let’s  order  a bottle  of  something,’  and  he 
says,  ‘No,  sir.  I’m  saving  my  money  to  buy  government  land  at  one 
dollar  and  a quarter  an  acre.  I’m  going  to  buy  to-morrow,  and  you’d 
better  let  me  take  the  money  you  would  have  spent  for  the  liquor  and 
buy  a couple  of  acres  along  with  mine.’  I says,  ‘All  right.’  So  we  didn’t 
drink,  and  he  bought  me  two  acres. 

“Well,  sir,  to-day  those  two  acres  are  right  in  the  middle  of  a 
flourishing  town ; and  if  I’d  taken  that  drink,  I’d  have  swallowed  a city 
block,  a grocery  store,  an  apothecary’s,  four  lawyer’s  offices,  and  it’s 
hard  to  say  what  else.  That’s  the  idea.  Don’t  you  think  it’s  horrible?” 
— Selected  by  Gospel  Herald. 

THAT  SOBERED  ME. 

A gentleman  high  in  commercial  circles  in  a Western  city  was 
relating  some  of  his  experiences  to  a group  of  friends. 

“I  think,”  said  he,  “the  most  singular  thing  that  ever  happened  to 
me  was  in  Hawaii. 

“My  father  was  a missionary  in  those  islands,  and  I was  born  there. 
I came  away  at  an  early  age,  however,  and  most  of  my  life  has  been 
spent  in  this  country ; but  when  I was  a young  man — and  a rather  tough 
young  man,  too,  I may  say — I went  back  there  once  on  a visit. 

“The  first  thing  I did  was  to  drink  more  than  I should  have  done. 
While  I was  in  this  condition,  an  old  man,  a native,  persuaded  me  to  go 
home  with  him.  He  took  me  into  his  house,  bathed  my  head,  gave  me 
some  strong  coffee  and  talked  soothingly  and  kindly  to  me. 

“ ‘Old  man,’  I said,  ‘what  are  you  doing  all  this  to  me  for?’ 

“‘Well,’  he  answered  me,  ‘I’ll  tell  you.  The  best  friend  I ever  had 
was  a white  man  and  an  American.  I was  a poor  drunkard.  He  made 


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STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


a mail  of  me,  and  I hope,  a Christian.  All  I am  or  ever  hope  to  be  I owe  i 
to  him.  Whenever  I see  an  American  in  your  condition  I feel  like  doing 
all  I can  for  him,  on  account  of  what  that  man  did  for  me.’ 

“This  is  a little  better  English  than  he  used,  but  it  is  the  substance  ^ 
of  it. 

“ ‘What  was  the  name  of  the  man?’  I asked  him. 

“ ‘Mr.  Blank,  a missionary.’ 

“‘God  of  mercy!’  I said,  ‘He  was  my  father!’ 

“Gentleman,  that  sobered  me — and,  I hope,  made  a man  of  me.  It  is 
certain  that  whatever  I am  to-day  I owe  to  that  poor  old  Sandwich 
Islander.” — Youth’s  Companion. 

DON’T  MARRY  A DRUNKARD. 

A young  lady  in  Iowa,  against  the  earnest  wishes  of  her  parents  ; 
and  the  advice  of  her  friends,  married  a man  addicted  to  the  use  of  liquor. 
He  had  promised  he  would  reform,  that  after  they  were  married  he  | 
would  not  touch  a drop  of  liquor,  and  she  believed  him.  A year  of 
married  life  was  sufficient  to  dispel  the  illusion.  The  husband  drank  ' 
deeper  and  deeper,  and  sank  lower  and  lower,  till  the  wife  felt  that  she  I 
could  live  with  him  no  longer,  and  applied  to  the  Supreme  Court  for  a ^ 
divorce.  Her  petition  was  denied,  the  court  informing  her  that  having  ; 
voluntarily  chosen  a drunkard  for  a husband,  she  must  discharge  the  1 
duties  of  a drunkard’s  wife.  “His  failure  to  keep  a pledge  of  reformation,  ( 
made  before  marriage,”  said  the  court,  “does  not  justify  you  in  deserting  i 
him.  Having  knowingly  married  a drunkard,  you  must  make  yourself  ; 
content  with  the  sacred  relationship.” — Lutheran  Observer. 

I 

TWIN  DEMONS  — A COLLOQUY. 

“I  am  hungry,”  said  the  Grave.  “Food,  food,  give  me  food!”  ; 

Death  answered,  “I  will  send  forth  my  ministers  of  destruction,  and  ] 
you  shall  be  satisfied.”  i 

“What  ministers  will  you  send?” 

“I  will  send  Alcohol  and  Tobacco,  twin  demons.  They  shall  go  in  ' 
the  guise  of  food  and  medicine.  The  people  shall  drink,  smoke,  chew  j 
and  die.”  j 

And  the  Grave  answered,  “I  am  content  if  two  such  demons  as  Rum  i 
and  Tobacco  join  hands  in  answering  my  wishes.”  ' 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


457 


And  now  the  church  bells  begin  to  toll  and  the  mournful  procession 
begins  to  advance. 

“Who  do  they  bring  now?”  said  the  Grave. 

“They  are  bringing,”  said  Death,  “a  household.  The  drunken  father 
aimed  a blow  at  his  wife.  He  killed  the  mother  and  her  child  together, 
and  then  dashed  out  his  own  life.  I can  give  you  an  abundance  of  such 
victims;  they  are  on  hand  day  and  night.” 

“And  who,”  said  the  Grave,  “comes  next,  followed  by  a train  of 
poor,  weeping  children?” 

“This  is  a broken-hearted  woman,  who  has  long  pined  away  in 
want,  while  her  husband  has  wasted  his  time  and  substance  at  the 
tavern,  in  drinking  and  smoking.  And  he,  too,  is  borne  behind,  killed  by 
the  hand  of  violence,  killed  in  a fashionable  saloon.” 

“And  who  comes  next?” 

“A  young  man  of  noble  impulses,  who,  step  by  step,  became 
dissipated  and  squandered  his  all.  He  first  smoked,  then  drank,  then 
gambled,  then  embezzled  his  master’s  m.oney,  went  to  jail,  came  out, 
went  from  bad  to  worse,  and  my  agent  turned  him  out  to  be  frozen  in  the 
street.” 

“Hush !”  said  the  Grave ; “now  I hear  a wail  of  anguish  that  will 
not  be  silenced.” 

“Yes,  it  is  the  widow’s  cry.  The  old  cry.  It  is  the  only  son  of  his 
mother.  He  smoked,  he  chewed,  he  drank,’  he  mingled  with  vile  women 
and  vile  men.  He  spurned  his  mother’s  love,  reviled  her  warnings,  and 
the  ragged  prodigal,  a bloated  corpse,  comes  to  thee.  And  thus  they 
come,  farther  than  the  eye  can  reach,  thousands  on  thousands  the  pro- 
cession crowds  thy  abodes.  And  still  lured  by  the  enchanting  drugs  and 
drinks  which  I have  mingled,  the  sons  of  men  crowd  the  path  of  dis- 
sipation. Vainly  they  dream  of  escape,  but  I shut  behind  them  the 
invisible  door  of  destiny.  They  know  it  not,  and  with  song  and  dance 
and  riot,  they  hasten  to  thee,  O Grave ! Then  I throw  my  fatal  spell 
upon  the  new  throngs  of  youth,  generation  after  generation,  and  soon 
they,  too,  will  be  with  thee.” 

“Now,”  said  the  Grave,  “thy  work  pleases  me.  Continue  to  send 
forth  these  mighty  agents  of  thine,  O Death,  to  entice  the  young  to  first 
chew  and  smoke,  that,  mingling  with  the  dissolute,  they  may  learn  to 
drink  and  fight.  Enchant  them  with  the  pleasure  of  base  appetite,  that 


458 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


they  may  forget  God  and  the  true  object  of  life  and  die  early;  so  shall 
our  harvest  be  great,  and  we  will  rejoice  together.” 

But  God  shall  bring  every  work  into  judgment. — Tract. 

THE  GREAT  DESTROYER. 

“Prisoner  at  the  bar,  have  you  anything  to  say  why  sentence  of 
death  should  not  be  passed  upon  you?” 

A solemn  hush  fell  over  the  crowded  court-room,  and  every  person 
waited  in  almost  breathless  expectation  for  an  answer  to  the  judge’s 
question. 

Will  the  prisoner  answer?  Is  there  nothing  that  will  make  him 
show  some  sign  of  emotion?  Will  he  maintain  the  cold,  indifferent 
attitude  he  has  shown  through  the  long  trial  even  to  the  place  of 
execution?  Such  were  the  questions  that  passed  through  the  minds  of 
those  who  had  followed  the  case  from  day  to  day. 

The  judge  still  waited  in  dignified  silence.  Not  a whisper  was  heard 
anywhere,  and  the  situation  had  become  painfully  oppressive,  when'  the 
prisoner  was  seen  to  move.  His  head  was  raised,  his  hands  were 
clenched,  and  the  blood  had  rushed  into  his  pale,  care-worn  face,  his 
teeth  were  firmly  set,  and  into  his  haggard  eyes  came  a flash  of  light. 
Suddenly  he  arose  to  his  feet,  and  in  a low,  firm,  but  distinct  voice,  said ; 

“I  have.  Your  Honor,  you  have  asked  me  a question,  and  I now 
ask,  as  the  last  favor  on  earth,  that  you  will  not  interrupt  my  answer 
until  I am  through. 

“I  stand  here  before  this  bar  convicted  of  the  wilful  murder  of  my 
wife.  Truthful  witnesses  have  testified  to  the  fact  that  I was  a loafer, 
a drunkard,  and  a wretch ; that  I returned  from  one  of  my  long  debauches 
and  fired  the  fatal  shot  that  killed  the  wife  I had  sworn  to  love,  cherish 
and  protect.  While  I have  no  remembrance  of  committing  the  fearful, 
cowardly  and  inhuman  deed,  I have  no  right  to  complain  or  condemn  the 
verdict  of  twelve  good  men  who  have  acted  as  jurors  in  this  case,  for 
their  verdict  is  in  accordance  with  the  evidence. 

“But,  may  it  please  the  court,  I wish  to  show  the  court  that  I am 
not  alone  responsible  for  the  murder  of  my  wife !” 

This  startling  statement  created  a tremendous  sensation.  The  judge 
leaned  over  the  desk,  the  lawyers  wheeled  around  and  faced  the  prisoner, 
the  jurors  looked  at  each  other  in  amazement,  while  the  spectators  could 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


45& 


hardly  suppress  their  intense  excitement.  The  prisoner  paused  a few 
seconds,  and  then  continued  in  the  same  firm,  distinct  voice; 

“1  repeat,  your  Honor,  that  I am  not  the  only  one  guilty  of  the 

murder  of  my  wife.  The  judge  on  this  bench,  the  jury  in  the  box,  the 

lawyers  within  this  bar,  and  most  of  the  witnesses,  including  the  pastor 
of  the  old  church,  are  also  guilty  before  Almighty  God,  and  will  have  to 
appear  with  me  before  the  judgment  throne,  where  we  all  shall  be 
righteously  judged. 

“If  twenty  men  conspire  together  for  the  murder  of  one  person,  the 
law  power  of  this  land  will  arrest  the  twenty,  and  each  will  be  tried, 

convicted  and  executed  for  the  whole  murd'er,  and  not  one-twentieth 

of  the  crime. 

“I  have  been  made  a drunkard  by  law.  If  it  had  not  been  for  the 
legalized  saloons  of  my  town,  I never  would  have  become  a drunkard,  my 
wife  would  not  have  been  murdered;  I would  not  be  here  now,  ready  to 
be  hurled  into  eternity.  Had  it  not  been  for  the  human  traps  set  out  with 
the  consent  of  the  government,  I would  have  been  a sober  man,  an 
industrious  workman,  a tender  father  and  a loving  husband.  But  to-day 
my  home  is  destroyed,  my  wife  murdered,  my  little  children — God  bless 
and  care  for  them — cast  on  the  mercy  of  a cold  and  cruel  world,  while 
I am  to  be  murdered  by  the  strong  arm  of  the  state. 

“God  knows  I tried  to  reform,  but  as  long  as  the  open  saloon  was 
in  my  pathway,  my  weak,  diseased  will  power  was  no  match  against  the 
fearful,  consuming,  agonizing  appetite  for  liquor.  At  last  I sought  the 
protection,  care  and  sympathy  of  the  Church  of  Jesus  Christ;  but  at  the 
communion  table  I received  from  the  hand  of  the  pastor  who  sits  there, 
and  who  has  testified  against  me  in  this  case,  the  cup  that  contained  the 
very  same  alcoholic  serpent  that  is  found  in  every  bar-room  in  the  land. 
It  proved  too  much  for  my  weak  humanity,  and  out  of  that  holy  place  I 
rushed  to  the  last  debauch  that  ended  with  the  murder  of  my  wife. 

“For  one  year  our  town  was  without  a saloon.  For  one  year  I was 
a sober  man.  For  one  year  my  wife  and'  children  were  supremely  happy, 
and  our  little  home  a perfect  paradise. 

“I  was  one  of  those  who  signed  the  remonstrance  against  reopening 
the  saloons  in  our  town.  The  names  of  one-half  of  this  jury  can  be  found 
to-day  on  the  petition  certifying  to  the  good  moral  character  (?)  of  the 
rumsellers,  and  falsely  saying  that  the  sale  of  liquor  was  ‘necessary’  in 
our  own  town.  The  prosecuting  attorney  in  this  case  was  the  one  who 


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STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


so  eloquently  pleaded  with  this  court  for  the  license,  and  the  judge  who 
sits  on  this  bench,  and  who  asked  me  if  I had  anything  to  say  before  sen- 
tence of  death  was  passed  upon  me,  granted  the  license.” 

The  Impassioned  words  of  the  prisoner  fell  like  coals  of  fire  upon  the 
hearts  of  those  present,  and  many  of  the  spectators  and  some  of  the 
lawyers  were  moved  to  tears.  The  judge  made  a motion  as  if  to  stop 
any  further  speech  on  the  part  of  the  prisoner,  when  the  speaker  hastily 
said ; 

“No!  no!  your  Honor,  do  not  close  my  lips;  I am  nearly  through, 
and  they  are  the  last  words  I shall  ever  utter  on  earth. 

“1  began  my  downward  career  at  a saloon  bar — legalized  and  pro- 
tected by  the  voters  of  this  commonwealth,  which  has  received  annually 
a part  of  the  blood  money  from  the  poor,  deluded  victims.  After  the 
state  has  made  me  a drunkard  and  a murderer,  I am  taken  before  another 
bar — the  bar  of  justice  (?) — by  the  same  power  of  law  that  legalized  the 
first  bar,  and  now  the  law-power  will  conduct  me  to  the  place  of  execu- 
tion and  hasten  my  soul  into  eternity.  I shall  appear  before  another  bar 
— the  judgment  bar  of  God,  and  there  you  who  have  legalized  the  traffic 
will  have  to  appear  with  me.  Think  you  that  the  Great  Judge  will  hold 
me — the  poor,  weak,  helpless  victim  of  5’our  traffic — alone  responsible  for 
the  murder  of  my  wife?  Nay;  I,  in  my  drunken,  frenzied,  irresponsible 
condition  have  murdered  one,  but  you  have  deliberately  and  Avilfully 
murdered  your  thousands,  and  the  murder-mills  are  in  full  (Operation 
to-day  with  your  consent. 

“All  of  you  know  in  your  hearts  that  these  words  of  mine  are  not 
the  ravings  of  an  unsound  mind,  but  God  Almighty’s  truth.  The  liquor 
traffic  of  this  nation  is  responsible  for  nearly  all  the  murders,  blood- 
shed, riots,  poverty,  misery,  wretchedness  and  woe.  It  breaks  up 
thousands  of  happy  homes  every  year,  sends  the  husband  and  father  to 
prison  or  to  the  gallows,  and  drives  countless  mothers  and  little  children 
into  the  world  to  suffer  and  die.  It  furnishes  nearly  all  the  criminal 
business  of  this  and  every  other  court,  and  blasts  every  communit}-  it 
touches. 

“You  legalized  the  saloons  that  made  me  a drunkard  and  a murderer, 
and  you  are  guilty  with  me  before  God  and  man  for  the  murder  of  my 
wife. 

“Your  Honor,  I am  done.  I am  now  ready  to  receive  my  sentence 
and  be  led  forth  to  the  place  of  execution,  and  murdered  according  to 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


461 


the  laws  of  this  state.  You  will  close  by  asking  the  Lord  to  have  mercy 
on  my  soul.  I will  close  by  solemnly  asking  God  to  open  your  blind 
eyes  to  the  truth,  to  your  individual  responsibility,  so  that  you  will 
cease  to  give  your  support  to  this  hell-born  traffic.” — ^Tallie  Morgan  in 
Youth’s  Outlook. 

HOW  A DRUNKARD  WAS  SAVED. 

I know  a man,  a carter  in  Glasgow,  who  was  a drunkard  and  never 
thought  about  God  or  his  soul. 

There  came  a time  when  God  saw  fit  to  take  to  Himself  the 
drunkard’s  little  girl,  who  was  loved  by  her  father  with  all  his  heart. 

The  night  before  the  funeral,  the  man  took  his  two  other  little 
girls  into  the  room  to  have  a last  look  at  their  sister.  There  they  all 
wept  together  bitterly. 

After  standing  in  the  death-chamber  a little  while,  one  of  the  wee 
girls  clasped  her  father  round  the  knees  and  said,  through  her  tears ; 

“Has  Jeanie  gone  to  heaven?” 

“Yes,  dearie,”  said  the  heart-broken  father. 

“Will  I go  one  day?”  asked  the  little  girl  again. 

“Yes,”  said  the  father,  “if  you’re  a good  girl  you  will  see  Jeanie  in 
heaven  some  day.” 

The  little  girl  had  now  caught  her  father’s  hand,  and,  looking  up 
again  into  his  face,  she  asked : 

“Father,  will  you  be  there,  too?” 

That  staggered  him,  and  the  drunkard  found  no  rest  until  he  knelt 
in  penitence  before  God  and  forsook  his  sin. 

Both  he  and  his  wife,  as  well  as  his  family,  are  serving  God  to-day. — 
Selected  by  Gospel  Herald. 

HOW  TO  MAKE  A GOOD  BOY. 

“They  all  put  brandy  in  them !”  said  one. 

“They  all  don’t.  My  mother  has  never  put  a dr®p  of  brandy  in  her 
mince  pie  since  the  day  Bob  said  he  could  taste  the  brandy  and  it 
tasted  good.  Mother  said  then  it  was  wrong,  and  she  would  never  be 
guilty  of  it  again ; and  if  mother  says  a thing  is  wrong,  you  may  be  sure 
it  is  wrong,  for  what  mother  knows,  she  knows.” 


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STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


“How  about  the  mince  pies?  Are  you  sure  she  knows  how  to  make 
pies  good?”  And  a laugh  went  up  from  a group  of  girls  gathered 
around  the  register  of  the  recitation  room,  eating  their  lunch.  But  some 
of  them  winced  a little  when  back  were  tossed  these  words : “If  she 
doesn’t,  she  knows  how  to  make  a boy  good,  and  isn’t  a boy  worth  more 
than  a mince  pie?” — Selected. 

CHRISTIAN  (?)  CIVILIZATION,  MISSIONARIES  AND  RUM. 

When  poor,  old,  worn-out  David  Livingston  died  upon  his  knees  in 
a lonely  hut  in  Central  Africa,  praying,  “Oh,  let  Thy  kingdom  come !” 
we  thought  he  had  opened  the  great  Dark  Continent  to  the  onward  march 
of  Christian  civilization  and  the  light  of  God’s  truth.  Missionary 
societies  and  conventions  caught  the  inspiration,  large  contributions 
began  to  flow  in,  and  scores  of  devoted  missionaries  volunteered,  and  the 
procession  began  to  move.  Watch  it;  one  missionary  and  70,000  gallons 
of  rum,  rum  and  missionaries ; and  thus  we  enter  the  Dark  Continent. 
Watch  again.  One  convert  to  Christ,  a hundred  drunkards.  The  mis- 
sionary’s heart  grows  sick  and  cries  out,  “For  the  love  of  Christ,  stop 
the  rum !”  The  climate  does  its  exhaustive  work,  and  one  by  one  the 
brave  workers  sink  beneath  the  burning  sun  or  return  home  broken  down 
in  health ; hearts  at  home  are  discouraged,  and  the  next  ship  goes  only 
with  rum — without  missionaries.  Some  years  ago  200  Africans,  mad- 
dened and  crazed  by  liquor,  sent  from  Boston,  slaughtered  one  another 
in  a single  day.  At  another  time  fifty  were  killed  in  a fight  caused  by  a 
single  gallon  of  rum.  Judas  sold  his  Lord  for  $17.00,  but  Christian 
America  sends  fifty  heathen  souls  to  perdition  for  90  cents. — Welcome 
News. 


THE  BRANDY  PEACH. 

“Ain’t  it  splendid !”  I heard  a little  boy  exclaim,  as  he  took  a huge 
bite  from  the  brandy  peach  his  playmate  had  offered. 

“What  makes  it  so  good,  Lewis?” 

“You  little  goose,  don’t  you  know?  Why,  it’s  the  brandy,  of  course,” 
was  his  companion’s  reply. 

“Then  brandy  must  be  very  good  if  it  makes  peaches  taste  so  nice,” 
said  Franky,  smacking  his  lips. 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


463 


“I  rather  think  it  is — it’s  delicious !”  answered  Lewis.  “I  coax 
mother  to  give  me  a spoonful  every  time  she  opens  a jar.  Father  don’t 
like  for  her  to  do  it,  though.  He  says  I might  grow  up  to  be  a drunkard ; 
but  mother  says  there  is  no  danger,  and  I say  so,  too;  for  I do  think  it 
is  awful  mean  for  a man  to  get  drunk  and  go  staggering  about  the  streets 
and  rolling  in  the  gutter.  No,  indeed;  I’ll  never,  never  be  a drunkard!” 

Years  passed,  and  I was  one  day  strolling  through  the  still,  shadowy 
groves  of  Glenwood  cemetery,  when  a funeral  procession  filed  slowly  in. 

The  coffin  was  very  rich  and  costly,  and  as  a sunbeam,  the  farewell 
of  the’  departing  day,  flashed  across  the  silver  plates  on  the  lid,  I read : 

“Lewis  Abbott.  Ag'ed  18.” 

When  the  coffin  was  lowered,  the  mother,  who  had  been  strangely 
calm,  suddenly  sprang  away  from  the  arm  on  which  she  had  been  leaning, 
threw  herself  on  her  knees  beside  the  grave,  with  her  hands  clasped 
and  her  tearless  eyes  gazing  wildly  down  into  the  dark  receptacle. 

“O,  my  precious  boy  I Lost  forever  1 Sent  to  perdition  by  your 
mother’s  hands  1”  As  this  despairing  cry  burst  from  her  lips,  she  threw 
her  arms  upward,  and  with  a deep  groan  of  mortal  anguish,  fell  back- 
ward, deathlike  and  inanimate.  She  was  removed  by  her  friends  to  the 
house  of  the  officer  in  charge  of  the  cemetery,  and  I,  shocked  and  startled 
beyond  measure,  left  the  place  with  that  terrible  cry  of  self-reproach 
ringing  in  my  ears. 

As  I passed  out  I met  a friend,  to  whom-  I related;  what  had  tran- 
spired, mentioning  the  name  of  the  youth. 

“I  heard  of  his  death  this  morning.  Poor  Lewis ! It  is  a brief  but 
sad  history,  and  as  I have  known  the  family  for  years.  I can  explain  the 
scene  you  have  witnessed. 

“Mrs.  Abbott  was  justly  famed  for  her  delicious  brandy  peaches, 
and  allowed  her  children  to  eat  of  them  freely.  Lewis,  the  only  son, 
seemed  to  have  a special  fondness  for  them,  carrying  one  to  school 
almost  every  day,  as  a part  of  his  lunch.  After  a time  he  began  to  beg 
for  the  brandy  in  which  they  were  preserved,  and  the  indulgent  mother 
often  gave  him  a spoonful.  At  last  it  began  to  disappear  very  rapidly 
and  strangely,  and  Lewis  was  caught  one  day  drinking  from  the  jar. 
Her  jars  were  locked  away  safely,  but  it  was  too  late.  The  infatuated 
boy  spent  his  pocket  money  for  brandy;  and  when  that  was  withheld, 
sold  his  skates,  then  his  watch,  then  his  books ; his  medal,  which  he 
prized  so  highly,  and  even  articles  of  clothing,  were  all  sacrificed  to 


464 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


the  fatal  appetite.  Now  the  star  of  his  young  life  has  gone  out  in  ever- 
lasting darkness.  His  last  words  were  full  of  the  most  fearful  import; 
‘Those  infernal  brandy  peaches,  mother — they  gave  me  the  first  start  on 
the  downward  road.  Remember  that,  mother !” — Christian  Guide.  - 

“AM  I TO  BLAME?” 

“Am  I to  blame,  mother?”  asked  a young  lad,  who  had  joined  a 
temperance  society.  His  father  and  mother  appeared  to  be  displeased 
with  him.  After  a silence,  the  boy  broke  forth,  “Sister  Mary  has  a 
drunken  husband,  who  abuses  her  every  day;  Sister  Susan’s  husband 
drank,  and  has  gone  off  and  left  her,  and  you  are  obliged  to  take  her 
home  and  take  care  of  her  children.  Brother  Jarries  comes  home  every 
night  drunk;  and  because  I have  joined  the  cold  water  army,  and  you 
are  likely  to  have  one  sober  person  in  the  family,  y'^ou  are  scolding  me. 
Am  I to  blame?” 

The  mother,  overcome  by  the  argument  of  her  child,  replied,  “You 
are  right,  my  boy.  May  God  bless  you,  and  help  you  to  keep  your  good 
resolution.” — Selected  by  Church  Advocate. 

A CORRECT  ANSWER. 

A liquor  dealer  in  the  town  of  Ayr,  Scotland,  had  a particular  brand 
of  whiskey  which  he  wished  to  advertise.  One  day  he  offered  a prize  for 
the  best  answer  to  the  question : “Why  does  this  particular  brand  of 
whiskey  resemble  a certain  bridge  across  the  water  of  the  Ayr?” 

The  judges  examined  the  answers  and  announced  the  successful 
competitor.  He  proved  to  be  a poor  boy  whose  father  was  a drunkard, 
and  his  answer  was : “Because  it  leads  to  the  poorhouse,  the  lunatic 
asylum,  and  the  cemetery.”  The  liquor  dealer  looked  glum  when  he 
paid  that  prize,  and  he  won’t  be  apt  to  offer  any  more  conundrums  to 
advertise  his  whiskey. — Selected. 

REMORSE  AND  RETRIBUTION. 

In  an  account  of  the  work  of  the  Woman’s  Temperance  Union  of 
New  York,  Helen  E.  Brown  communicated  to  the  Witness  the  following: 

“A  thrilling  incident  was  related  in  connection  with  a drinking 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


465 


saloon  which  had  been  visited.  The  place  is  one  of  ‘great  respectability,' 
frequented  by  the  better  class.  About  a month  before,  one  of  the  cus- 
tomers had  the  ‘misfortune’  to  overstep  the  bounds  of  moderate  drinking 
and  decorum,  and  was  forcibly  ejected  from  the  premises  by  the  pro- 
prietor. It  was  feared  from  the  first  that  the  young  man  was  mortally 
injured,  and  so  great  was  the  terror  of  the  rumseller,  in  view  of  the 
consequences  to  himself  in  case  death  should  ensue,  that  he  was  com- 
pletely prostrated.  His  wife  tried  in  vain  to  comfort  him,  and  wished 
to  call  a physician,  but  the  man  refused  all  consolation  and  advice,  say- 
ing: ‘Can  a doctor  cure  a broken  heart?’ 

“The  victim  of  his  cruelty  died,  and  when  the  long  train  of  funeral 
carriages  passed  the  house,  fingers  were  pointed  from  them,  like  mute 
sign-boards,  indicating:  ‘There,  there’s  the  house!  There,  there’s  the 
murderer !’  The  miserable  man,  who  had  risen  from  his  bed  to  look 
at  the  procession,  saw  the  fingers ! Each  one  was  like  an  arrow  of 
remorse  to  his  soul,  which  curdled  the  blood  in  his  veins,  and  sent  him 
reeling  back  to  his  pillow. 

“Shortly  after,  the  officers  of  justice  entered  for  his  arrest.  His 
wife  protested:  ‘He  is  ill;  why  disturb  him?’  ‘Good  woman,’  they  re- 
plied, ‘cease  your  excuses ; he  cannot  evade  the  law.’  They  thought  he 
was  feigning  sickness,  and  proceeded  to  their  work,  but  as  they  lifted 
him  from  his  bed,  he  fell  back,  groaned  and  died ! 

“As  a sequel  to  this  terrible  fact,  illustrating  even  more  forcibly  the 
soul-destroying  effects  of  this  unholy  traffic,  the  wife  and  the  daughter 
of  this  man  continued  the  business  on  the  same  corner,  their  consciences 
being  evidently  much  less  sensitive  than  that  of  the  husband  and  father.” 
— Selected  by  Herald  of  Light. 

. THE  CLOSING  SCENE. 

The  police  courts  abound  in  strange  revelations ; for  often  there  the 
curtain  falls  upon  the  closing  scene  in  some  eventful  dram.a  which  began 
with  mirth,  and  wine,  and  pleasure,  but  which  ends  in  anguish,  darkness 
and  despair. 

A writer  gives  the  following  sketch  of  such  a scene : 

“Johnson,  the  officer  says  you  were  drunk,  and  that  you  haven’t 
drawn  a sober  breath  for  a week.  How  is  that,  Johnson?” 

“Yer  honor,”  said  Johnson,  as  he  dropped  one  arm  over  the  rail. 


466 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


and  leaned  back  heavily  on  the  policeman  who  supported  him  by  the 
shoulder,  “yer  honor,  it’s  true;  I’ve  been  drunk  for  a week,  as  you  say, 
an’  I haven’t  got  a word  to  say  to  defend  myself.  I’ve  been  in  this  ’ere 
court,  I guess,  a hundred  times  before,  an’  every  time  I’ve  asked  your 
honor  to  let  me  off  light.  But  this  time  I don’t  have  no  fear.  You  can 
send  me  up  for  ten  days  or  ten  years ; it’s  all  one  now.” 

As  he  spoke  he  brushed  away  a tear  with  his  hat,  and  when  he 
paused  he  coughed  a dry,  racking  cough,  and  drew  his  tattered  coat 
closer  about  his  throat. 

“When  I went  up  before,”  he  continued,  “I  always  counted  the  days 
an’  the  hours  till  I’d  come  off.  This  time  I’ll  count  the  blocks  to  the 
Potter’s  field.  I’m  most  gone.  Judge.” 

He  paused  again,  and  looked  down  upon  his  almost  shoeless  feet. 

“When  I was  a little  country  boy,  my  mother  used  to  say  to  me: 
‘Charlie,  if  you  want  to  be  a man,  never  touch  liquor;’  an’  I’d  answer: 
‘No,  mother,  I never  will.’  If  I’d  kept  that  promise,  you  an’  me  wouldn’t 
have  been  so  well  acquainted.  If  I could  only  be  a boy  again  for  half 
a day;  if  I could  go  into  the  school-house  just  once  more  and  see  the 
boys  and  girls  as  I used  to  see  them  in  the  old  days,  I could  lie  right 
down  here  and  die  happy.  But  it's  too  late.  Send  me  up.  Judge.  Make 
it  ten  days  or  make  it  for  life.  It  don’t  make  no  difference.  One  way 
would  be  as  short  as  the  other.  All  I ask  now  is  to  die  alone.  I’ve 
been  in  crowded  tenements  for  years.  If  I can  be  alone  for  a little  while 
before  I go.  I’ll  die  contented.” — The  Common  People. 

AN  INDIAN  TEMPERANCE  PLEDGE. 

The  morning  was  perfect: 

The  blue  of  the  sky  was  intensely  blue,  and  the  grass-blades  had  a 
new  dress,  for  a frost  had  settled  upon  mother  earth  during  the  night. 
A walk  of  four  or  five  miles  took  me  from  the  station  through  the  white 
settlement.  Two  miles  farther  through  the  woods  lay  the  little  Indian 
village  with  the  log  church. 

The  leaves  were  falling  from  the  maples.  Occasionally  a squirrel 
gave  vent  to  his  joy. 

But  sounds  were  few.  It  was  a time  for  meditation.  The  glory  of 
God  seemed  to  fill  the  forests.  The  soul  was  stirred  with  a new  rever- 
ence and  love. 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


While  I was  quietly  walking,  and  meditating  upon  the  message  to 
which  the  patient  Indians  were  to  listen,  this  exquisite  solitude  was  ab- 
ruptly ended. 

The  intruder  proved  to  be  a white  settler  returning  from  the  Indian 
village. 

By  his  attitude  it  appeared  that  some  startling  news  was  in  store. 
Anxious  to  relate  it,  he  introduced  his  remarks  with,  “Say,  Elder,  don’t 
think  your  preaching’s  reached  quite  all  the  Indians  yit.” 

Then  he  recited  the  sad  tragedy  of  “Big  Jack’s”  death. 

Big  Jack  was  known  as  a jolly  good  fellow,  tall  and‘  strong.  He 
had  earned  “a  stake”  loading  vessels. 

It  was  the  sad  story  of  many  an  Indian,  and  white  man,  too,  in  that 
north  country.  Some  one  had  treated  him,  and  then,  they  said,  “he  had 
gone  crazy,  and  would  not  stop.”  He  lost  his  money,  of  course;  no  one 
knew  how ; and  at  a late  hour  they  started  him  on  the  Chicago  & North- 
western Railroad  for  home.  The  next  morning  his  mangled  remains 
were  found. 

My  thoughts  quickly  changed.  What  could  I say  to  those  people  to 
help  them?  The  fact  was  that  the  Indians  had  been  ashamed  to  send  for 
me,  and  had  buried  Jack  among  the  hemlocks  and  maples. 

That  day  I talked  to  them,  not  upon  the  subject  which  I had  pre- 
pared, but  upon  intemperance,  and  pressing  home  the  truth  that  the 
Master  was  able  to  keep  them  if  they  would  trust  him. 

They  listened  attentively;  some  of  them  wept.  The  older  women, 
who  always  insisted  on  sitting  upon  the  floor  instead  of  in  the  pews, 
swayed  and  moaned. 

The  meeting  was  followed  by  the  usual  hand-shaking,  and  the  fre- 
quent “That’s  so,”  “Good  talk  for  Indian,”  “Me  need  that  so,”  “Poor 
Jack !”  etc.,  gave  fair  promise  that  good  results  would  come. 

Two  weeks  passed;  the  scattered  field  of  eight  places  was  traversed; 
and  now  the  walk  once  more  to  the  Indian  village,  this  time  in  the  midst 
of  a cold  November  storm. 

My  thoughts  went  back  to  the  bitterness  and  sorrow  attending  the 
previous  meeting. 

The  same  respectful  audience  of  men,  women,  and  children  were 
assembled.  As  I walked  up  the  steps  into  the  pulpit,  something  strange 
^greeted  my  eye.  It  was  a temperance  pledge  pinned  to  the  wall. 

While  I read  it  there  was  a deathlike  silence.  After  reading  it  some 


468 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


moments  were  spent,  still  facing  the  wall,  in  the  endeavor  to  regain  my 
usual  gravity. 

The  pledge  was  as  follows : 

“We  know  whisky  bad.  Jack  dead  because  of  whisky.  We  ’gree 
not  touch  whisky.  Trust  God  keep  us.” 

Then  followed  a long  list  of  the  names  of  men,  women,  and  children. 

Some  said,  “Me  ’gree  not  touch  whisky  for  six  months”;  another 
could  hold  out  only  three  months ; still  another  one  month ; some  could 
keep  the  pledge  as  long  “as  mother  or  wife  not  want  to  touch,”  but  all 
pledges  were  given  in  good  faith  and  with  perfect  sincerity. — Christian 
Endeavor  World. 

A MOTHER’S  STRUGGLE. 

A father,  mother  and  five  children  live  in  a humble  home  in  Phila- 
delphia ; the  youngest  child  is  a mere  baby  of  two  years ; the  father 
awakens  in  the  morning  to  find  his  wife  has  slipped  away,  and,  searching, 
finds  her  in  the  bath-room  dead  from  self-asphyxiation.  She  leaves  this 
note  for  him : 

“Tony;  You  will  be  surprised  to  hear  I have  gone  away — where,  I 
do  not  know.  But  before  the  day  is  over  you  wdll  find  out  why.  Be 
good  to  the  baby.  I know  you  will  never  forgive  me  for  what  I have 
done.  God  help  and  have  mercy  on  me.  Good-bye  to  all.  May  God 
be  good  to  you  all.  From  a wretched  and  bad  wife  and  mother.  My 
last  good-night.  Mother.” 

Within  a week  this  mother  had  attempted  her  life  twice,  but  her 
husband’s  love  and  watchfulness  had  prevented  her  from  succeeding 
before. 

“Why,”  you  ask,  “did  she  persist?”  It  is  not  a strange  story,  be 
assured.  She  was  a victim  of  the  liquor  habit.  She  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  beer  from  childhood.  Gradually  the  craving  had  grown  upon 
her  until  it  was  a mighty  passion  that  surged  through  her  veins  and 
would  not  be  stilled.  More  fiery  liquors  were  craved  and  drunk.  A 
few  months  ago  she  had  delirium  tremens.  Then  she  realized  her  danger 
and  fought  desperately  for  relief ; she  summoned  all  her  powers  of  mind 
to  the  task;  she  struggled  bravely  against  the  thirst  for  three  Aveeks, 
but  then  gave  up  in  real  despair;  the  sequel  was  another  attack  of  tre- 
mens ; then  she  went  under  treatment,  but  no  good  came  of  it ; then  she 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


469 


ran  the  gamut  of  patent  medicines  and  recommended  remedies.  But 
her  attacks  of  delirium  were  frequent  and  more  than  once  she  lay  at 
death’s  door.  Her  husband  mercifully  and  tenderly  nursed  her  through 
these  crises  and  loved  her  royally  and  faithfully.  But  the  end  was 
reached,  as  the  story  above  records  it. — Selected. 

PLAGUE-SPOTS. 

In  sentencing  a murderer  to  death,  the  judge  made  use  of  the  fol- 
lowing language:  “Nor  can  the  place  be  forgotten  in  which  occurred 
the  shedding  of  blood.  It  was  one  of  the  thousand  ante-chambers  of 
perdition  which  mar,  like  plague-spots,  the  fair  face  of  our  state.  You 
do  not  need  to  be  told  that  I mean  a tippling-shop — the  meeting  place 
of  Satan’s  minions,  and  the  foul  cesspool  which,  by  spontaneous  genera- 
tion, breeds  and  matures  all  that  is  loathsome  and  disgusting  in  pro- 
fanity and  babbling  and  vulgarity  and  Sabbath  breaking.  I would  not 
be  the  owner  of  a groggery  for  the  price  of  this  globe  converted  into 
precious  ore.  For  the  pitiful  sum  of  a dime  the  liquor  seller  made  the 
deceased  a fool  and  the  trembling  culprit  a demon.  How  paltry  a sum 
for  two  human  lives ! This  traffic  is  tolerated  by  the  law,  and  therefore 
the  vender  has  committed  an  offense  not  recogniz'ed  by  earthly  tribunals  ; 
but  in  the  sight  of  Him  who  is  unerring  in  wisdom,  he  who  deliberately 
furnishes  the  intoxicating  draft  which  inflames  man  into  anger  and 
violence  and  bloodshed  is  ‘particeps  criminis’  in  the  moral  turpitude  of 
the  deed.  Is  it  not  high  time  that  the  sinks  of  vice  and  crime  should 
be  held  rigidly  accountable  to  the  laws  of  the  land,  and  placed  under 
the  ban  of  all  enlightened  and  virtuous  prtblic  opinion?” — The  Vanguard. 

SAVED  BY  REVERENCE  FOR  THE  BIBLE. 

One  evening  a liquor  saloon  in  New  York  City  was  crowded.  There 
was  a “Bible  raffle.”  As  the  men  went  to  the  counter  one  by  one  to 
shake  the  dice  box,  there  was  laughter  and  blasphemy.  At  last  one 
who  lay  stupidly  drunk  was  roused  and  bidden  to  take  a hand.  He 
staggered  to  the  counter  and  threw  the  highest  number.  The  boisterous 
crowd  gathered  round  him  with  jests  and  questions.  He  grew  sober  in 
a moment,  and  not  noticing  their  jokes,  took  the  Holy  Book  in  his  hands 
reverently  and  said  to  the  bar-keeper,  “Please  wrap  this  in  the  cleanest 


470 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


piece  of  paper  you  have,  but  don’t  let  it  have  the  smell  of  whisky  about 
it.”  Turning  to  the  amazed  group,  he  said,  “Good  evening,  gentlemen. 
It’s  the  last  time  we’ll  meet  here.  I’m  going  home  to  make  one  of  the 
best  wives  in  the  world,  the  happiest  woman  in  New  York,”  and  taking 
the  Bible  he  passed  out,  jeered  by  some,  but  cheered  by  others.  He 
walked  rapidly  to  his  squalid  home.  He  mounted  the  rickety  stairs, 
entered  the  room,  walked  to  where  his  wife  sat,  and  laid  the  parcel  on 
her  lap.  She  started  and,  looking  up  with  a faint  semblance  of  the  old, 
almost  forgotten  smile,  said,  “You  are  early  to-night,  John.”  She  saw  a 
change  had  come  over  him,  and  quickly  opened  the  package.  Seeing 
the  book,  she  burst  into  tears,  and  said,  “John,  I’ve  been  thinking  of  you 
all  day,  and  wondering  if  you  would  ever  be  your  own  old  self  again. 
While  I was  thinking,  little  Agnes  came  up,  and  putting  her  arms  around 
my  neck,  said,  ‘Mamma,  why  doesn’t  papa  have  prayers  and  the  Bible 
as  grandpa  does  when  we  go  to  see  him  ?’  I could  not  answer  her,  John, 
but  now  you  can.”  “Yes,  I’ll  answer  her,  wife;  get  me  a pen  and  some 
ink.”  Then  he  opened  the  fly-leaf  and  wrote : “To  my  faithful  wife, 
whom  I shall  never  again  voluntarily  cause  a sorrow  or  blush  of  shame, 
John.”  The  husband  kept  his  word.  His  reverence  for  the  Book  of 
God  led  to  reverence  for  the  Word  of  God  and  saved  him. — Selected  by 
King’s  Highway.  » 

HOW  LIQUOR  AFFECTS  THE  HEART. 

The  late  Dr.  Sir  Benjamin  W.  Richardson,  one  of  the  greatest 
physicians  England  ever  produced,  once  heard  a man  praising  wine  and 
beer,  and  said  he  could  not  get  along  without  it,  when  Dr.  Richardson, 
’rjy  a simple  experiment,  showed  him  one  evil  of  liquor  drinking.  Dr. 
Richardson  said  to  him  : 

“Will  you  be  good  enough  to  feel  my  pulse  as  I stand  here?” 

“He  did  so.  I said,  ‘Count  it  carefully;  what  does  it  say?’ 

“ ‘Your  pulse  it  74,’  said  he. 

“I  then  sat  down  in  a chair  and  asked  him  to  count  it  again.  He 
did  so,  and  said,  ‘Your  pulse  has  gone  down  to  70.’ 

“I  then  lay  down  on  the  lounge,  and  said : 

“ ‘Will  you  count  it  again?’ 

“He  did  so,  and  replied,  ‘Why,  it  is  only  64;  what  an  extraordinary 
thing !’ 

“I  then  said, 'when  j^ou  lie  down  at  night,  that  is  the  way  nature 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


471 


gives  your  heart  rest.  You  know  nothing  about  it,  but  that  beating 
organ  is  resting  to  that  extent ; and  if  you  reckon  it  up,  it  is  a great  dea! 
of  rest,  because  in  lying  down,  the  heart  is  doing  ten  strokes  less  a 
minute.  Multiply  that  by  60,  and  it  is  600;  multiply  it  by  eight  hours, 
and  within  a fraction  it  is  5,000  strokes  different;  and  as  the  heart  is 
throwing  60  ounces  of  blood  at  every  stroke,  it  makes  a difference  of 
d0,000  ounces  of  lifting  during  the  night.’ 

“When  I lie  down  at  night  without  any  alcohol,  that  is  the  rest  my 
heart  gets.  But  when  you  take  your  wine  or  grog,  you  do  not  allow 
that  rest,  for  the  influence  of  alcohol  is  to  increase  the  number  of  strokes, 
and  instead  of  getting  this  rest,  you  put  on  something  like  15,000  extra 
strokes,  and  the  result  is,  you  rise  up  tired  and  very  unfit  for  the  next 
day’s  work.” — Tract. 

HOGS  WORTH  MORE  THAN  MEN! 

Several  years  ago,  when  Sam  Jones  lectured  in  Sigourney,  Iowa,  he 
gave  a deserved  roasting  to  those  who  signed  saloon  petitions.  This 
report  is  from  a Sigourney  paper : 

“This  nice  little  Iowa  town,  with  a farming  region  around  it,  makes 
one  of  the  garden  spots  of  the  world;  but  with  all  your  blessings  you 
can’t  get  along  without  three  saloons  to  debauch  your  village  and  ruin 
your  boys,  because  you  need  the  money. 

“Here  Mr.  Jones  inquired  of  the  surprised  audience,  ‘How  much  is 
the  license  here?’  Some  one  answered,  ‘$300  each  to  the  town.’  ‘Nine 
hundred  dollars  altogether,’  resumed  Jones.  ‘What  is  your  population?’ 
Answer,  ‘2,000.’  The  speaker  then  did  a little  lightning  calculation,  and 
resumed : 

‘“The  liquor  dealer  walked  up  to  you  and  said,  ‘If  you  will  let  us 
damn  this  town,  we  will  give  you  forty  cents  apiece.  Say,  what  Would 
a 200-pound  hog  bring?’ 

“Answer,  ‘$12.’  ‘So,’  resumed  Jones,  ‘hogs  $12  apiece  and  folks 

forty  cents  a head.  Say,  brother,  don’t  you  wish  you  were  a hog?  You 
and  your  whole  family  wouldn’t  bring  enough  in  this  town  to  buy  a 
suckling  pig.  This  is  a little  lower  down  than  I have  ever  found  them. 
For  the  pitiful  sum  of  forty  cents  apiece  you  turn  over  your  boys  to  be 

debauched,  the  hearts  of  mothers  to  be  crushed,  and  the  town  ruined. all 

for  forty  cents.  That  is  cheap;  but  I expect  that  is  all  you  are  worth,  eh? 


472 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


“ T want  to  drop  this  out.  There  is  not  a man  of  you  that  signed 
t’  lt  petition  to  bring  saloons  to  this  town,  or  county,  but  deserves  that 
every  boy  you  have  in  your  home  shall  fill  a drunkard’s  grave,  and  your 
daughters  live  in  the  embrace  of  drunken  husbands.  What  did  you  sign 
it  for?  If  you  did  not  want  your  boys  to  drink,  or  your  daughters  to 
marry  a drunkard,  what  did  you  do  it  for?  Stand  up  and  talk  back. 
You  surely  did  not  sign,  hoping  your  boy  would  rtot  drink,  but  that 
your  neighbor’s  would.  Why  don’t  you  say,  ‘To  tell  you  the  God 
Almighty  truth,  I did  it  for  the  forty  cents.’  If  the  devil  don’t  get  you 
for  it,  it  is  just  because  he  don’t  want  you,  and  every  man  that  will  sign 
that  petition — the  devil  will  get  the  last  man  of  you — but  thank  God,  he 
won’t  get  much.  If  you  fellows  that  signed  that  petition  don’t  feel  like  a 
hog,  you  don’t  feel  natural,  that’s  all.’  ” — Tract. 

BENJAMIN  FRANKLIN’S  EXPERIENCE. 

“At  first  my  admission  into  the  printing  house  (Palmer’s,  Bartholo- 
mew Close,  London),  I took  to  working  at  press,  imagining  I felt  the 
want  of  the  bodily  exercise  I had  been  used  to  in  America,  where  press 
work  is  mixed  with  the  composing.  I drank  only  water;  the  other  men, 
nearly  fifty  in  number,  were  great  drinkers  of  beer.  On  one  occasion  I 
carried  up  and  down  stairs  a large  form  of  types  in  each  hand,  while 
others  carried  but  one  form  in  both  hands.  They  wondered  at  this  and 
several  instances,  that  the  Water  American,  as  they  called  me,  w^as 
stronger  than  themselves  who  drank  beer.  We  had  an  alehouse  boy, 
who  attended  always  in  the  house  to  supply  the  workmen.  My  com- 
panion at  the  press  drank  every  day  a pint  before  breakfast,  a pint  at 
breakfast  with  his  bread  and  cheese,  a pint  beAveen  breakfast  and  din- 
ner, a pint  at  dinner,  a pint  in  the  afternoon  about  six  o’clock,  and 
another  when  he  had  done  his  day’s  -work.  I thought  it  a detestable 
custom;  but  it  was  necessary,  he  supposed,  to  drink  strong  beer,  that  he 
might  be  strong  to  labor.  I endeavored  to  convince  him  that  the  bodily 
strength  afforded  by  beer  could  only  be  in  proportion  to  the  grain  of 
flour  of  the  barley  dissolved  in  the  water  of  which  it  was  made  ; that 
there  was  more  flour  in  a penniuvorth  of  bread  ; and,  therefore,  that  if 
he  would  eat  that  with  a pint  of  water,  it  would  give  him  more  strength 
than  a quart  of  beer.  He  drank  on,  how^ever.  and  had  four  or  fivv.* 
shillings  to  pay  out  of  his  w’ages  every  Saturda}'  night  for  that  viie 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


473 


liquor;  an  expense  I was  free  from.  And  thus  these  poor  devils  keep 
themselves  under.” — From  his  Autobiography. 

REPORT  OF  A GOVERNMENT  INVESTIGATION. 

The  United'  States  Commissioner  of  Labor  maae  an  investigation 
into  the  question. as  to  what  extent  the  fact  of  being  a drinking  man 
bars  a man  from  obtaining  employment. 

Circulars  of  inquiry  were  sent  to  7,000  employing  concerns,  all  of 
which  are  representative  in  their  lines  of  business.  There  were  6,976 
replies  received.  Of  these,  5,363  state  they  take  the  drink  habit  into 
consideration  in  employing  new  men.  The  reason  given  by  most  is  that 
it  is  simply  a business  precaution.  The  employer  is  liable  for  damages 
done  by  accident  in  his  establishment,  and  it  is  only  prudent  to  employ 
men  with  clear  heads. 

The  reason  is  a good  one,  and  should  be  pondered  by  every  work- 
ingman. To  have  a reputation  as  a sober  man  is  distinctly  in  a man’s 
favor  in  obtaining  work,  and  in  these  days  of  intense  competition,  every 
man  who  desires  to  prosper  will  see  the  necessity,  as  a bit  of  business 
prudence,  for  avoiding  the  drink  habit. — Tract. 

LARGEST  BUSINESS  MEN  DON’T  DRINK. 

Mr.  Edward  Bok,  the  editor  of  the  Ladies’  Home  Journal,  made  an 
investigation  as  to  the  proportion  of  the  leading  business  men  of  the 
nation  who  are  addicted  to  the  use  of  liquors.  Twenty-eight  of  the 
largest  business  men  of  the  country  were  taken  for  the  purpose  of  the 
investigation,  and  the  results  show  that  twenty-two  out  of  the  twent}'- 
eight,  or  more  than  five-sevenths,  have  never  used  alcoholic  liquors  in 
any  way,  shape  or  form.  Mr.  Bok  says: 

“As  I looked  around,  and  came  to  know  more  of  people  and  things, 
I found  the  always  unanswerable  argument  in  favor  of  a young  man’s 
abstinence ; that  is,  that  the  most  successful  men  in  America  to-day  are 
those  who  never  lift  a wine-glass  to  their  lips.  Becoming  interested  in 
this  fact,  I had  the  curiosity  to  inquire  personally  into  it ; I found  that 
of  twenty-eight  of  the  leading  business  men  in  the  country,  whose  names 
I selected  at  random,  twenty-two  never  toiiched  a drop  of  wine.  I made 
up  my  mind  that  there  was  some  reason  for  this.  If  liquor  brought  safe 


474 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


pleasures,  why  did  these  men  abstain’  from  it?  If,  as  some  say,  it  is  a 
stimulant  to  the  busy  man,  why  do  not  these  men,  directing  the  largest 
business  interests  in  this  country,  resort  to  it?  And  when  I saw  that 
these  were  men  whose  opinions  in  great  business  matters  were  accepted 
by  the  leading  concerns  of  the  world,  I concluded  that  their  judgment 
in  the  use  of  liquor  would  satisfy  me.  If  their  judgment  in  business 
matters  could'  command  the  respect  and  attention  of  the  leaders  of  trade 
on  both  sides  of  the  sea,  their  decision  as  to  the  use  of  liquor  was  not 
apt  to  be  wrong.” — Tract. 

DISCHARGED  FOR  ENTERING  A STORE. 

A business  man  tells  me  that  he  saw  one  of  his  employees  come 
out  of  a certain  store,  and  when  he  reached  his  office  he  promptly  dis- 
charged him.  Have  you  business  men  any  doubt  what  the  store  was? 
It  was  probably  a book  store,  and  he  feared  his  clerk  was  becoming  too 
intelligent;  or  it  was  a restaurant,  and  he  feared  the  young  man  w’as 
getting  too  much  to  eat ; or  it  was  a furnishing  store,  and  he  was  about 
to  wear  clothes  too  good  for  him.  If  we  were  half-witted,  we  might  miss 
the  kind  of  store  out  from  which  he  came.  There  is  one  kind  of  store 
which  you  will  not  allow  your  trusted  employee  to  frequent,  and  that 
is  the  liquor  store,  the  saloon. 

A railroad  company  was  much  disturbed  about  the  habits  of  its 
employees.  It  held  no  brief  for  their  morals,  and  had  no  foolish 
notions  about  its  right  to  restrict  their  personal  liberty,  but  it 
felt  that  certain  habits  made  them  inefficient,  that  they  were  not 
likely  to  be  reliable  if  they  went  to  certain  places.  The  company  did 
not  say  that  they  might  go  a limited  number  of  times  each  day,  with 
that  beautiful  spirit  of  triie  temperance  which  some  men  urge,  did  not 
trust  the  men  who  kept  these  stores  to  watch  that  these  men  kept  truly 
temperate.  That  would  have  been  a sweet  thing  to  say  and  also  idiotic. 
It  said  to  them : “You  enter  those  places,  or  use  their  products,  and  you 
will  be  summarily  dismissed  from  the  service.”  Now,  it  is  significant 
that  the  forbidden  places  were  not  book  stores,  nor  grocery  stores,  nor 
restaurants,  nor  library  buildings,  but  saloons,  and  any  places  where 
liquor  is  sold.  You  may  claim  the  right  to  be  a user  of  liquor  yourself, 
but' you  will  not  willingly  ride  in  a train  behind  an  engine  whose  cab 
is  occupied  by  a man,  to  whom  the  saloon  is  an  institution  of  common 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


475 


personal  experience.  You  may  be  willing  to  live  next  a grocery  store, 
but  you  neither  live  nor  raise  your  children  any  nearer  a saloon  than 
you  have  to  be. — Rev.  C.  B.  McAfee,  D.  D. 

A BANK’S  TEMPERANCE  RULE. 

A leading  bank  of  Cleveland,  Ohio,  has  adopted  a very  stringent 
rule  against  the  use  of  intoxicants  by  its  employees.  When  a man  or 
boy  enters  the  service  of  this  institution,  he  is  required  to  sign  an  agree- 
ment that  he  will  not  enter  any  place  where  intoxicating  liquors  are 
sold.  Two  who  had  signed  the  pledge  were  dismissed  because  they  took 
a couple  of  young  women  into  a liquor-selling  restaurant  after  the 
theatre. 

“It  may  seem  a hardship,”  said  an  official  of  the  bank,  in  explanation 
of  their  action,  “to  prevent  a young  man  from  entering  a hotel  or  restau- 
rant to  which  he  might  go  with  the  best  of  motives,  but  with  this  rule 
agreed  to  on  the  part  of  the  employees  and  enforced  on  the  part  of  the 
bank,  we  feel  sure  that  an  employee  is  not  going  to  steal  the  bank’s 
money  for  the  purpose  of  spending  it  in  improper  places,  nor  are  the 
employees  likely  to  form  the  acquaintance  of  short  card  gamblers  or 
race  track  touts  in  the  dairy  lunch  rooms.  We  are  seriously  contemplat- 
ing the  extension  of  the  order,  so  that  it  shall  apply  to  any  place  where 
stocks  or  produce  is  dealt  in  on  a margin.” — Tract. 

A PHYSICIAN’S  BLUNDER. 

Schoharie  County,  New  York,  has  another  dark  page  in  its  history, 
a shocking  murder — a murder  that  was  directly  the  result  of  the  liquor 
traffic.  The  connection  is  perfectly  clear. 

The  murderer  is  the  son  of  one  of  the  most  respected  families  in  the 
county.  His  father  is  a leading  Methodist  and  a well-known  prohi- 
bitionist. The  young  man  acquired  the  taste  for  intoxicating  liquors 
through  a prescription  given  by  a physician  when  he  was  a mere  boy. 
Some  evil  influence  seemed  to  make  it  impossible  for  him  to  shake  off  the 
habit.  In  spite  of  everything  that  could  be  done  by  his  friends,  and  his 
own  apparently  earnest  efforts,  he  suffered  from  periodical  lapses,  in 
which  he  would  become  grossly  intoxicated.  On  the  evening  of  Monday, 
April  30,  1906,  in  an  intoxicated  condition,  he  attempted  to  enter  the 


476 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


house  of  some  people  in  the  village  and  was  refused  admission.  A 
quarrel  ensued  and  he  shot  the  woman  who  was  refusing  to  let  him  in, 
killing  her  almost  instantly. 

Every  item  of  the  case  marks  it  distinctly  as  a whiskey  tragedy. 
It  began  with  the  criminal  blunder  of  a physician.  It  was  developed  by 
the  presence  of  the  perpetual  temptation  in  the  licensed  saloons  of  this 
village.  It  culminated  in  an  act  of  drunken  fury  inspired  by  drink  which 
had  been  sold  the  poor  fellow  by  men  who  perfectly  well  knew  that  they 
had  no  legal  right  to  sell  it,  in  view  of  his  known  intemperate  habits. 

The  terrible  tragedy  shows  how  utterly  impossible  it  is  for  even  the 
most  careful  parents  to  guard  their  homes  from  an  evil  that  is  legalized 
by  the  state  and  ignored  by  the  so-called  “better  elements”  of  society. — 
The  Defender. 

SENSIBLE  WORDS  FROM  A SENIOR. 

I heard  two  collegians  discussing  the  subject  of  wines,  apropos  to  a 
collegiate  dinner. 

“Of  course,”  said  one,  with  a consequential  touch  of  self-compla- 
cency, “if  a fellow  hasn’t  wit  enough  to  know  when  to  stop,  he’d  better 
be  careful  at  first.  Some  heads  are  built  weak,  you  know.” 

“Careful  in  what?”  interpolated  I. 

“Why,  drinking,  of  course,”  said  the  speaker.  “A  fellow  has  to 
take  his  seasoning  sooner  or  later;  some  can  stand  it,  some  cannot,  at 
least  for  a while.” 

He  was  a freshman.  His  friend,  a bearded  senior,  the  only  son  of 
a rich  man,  slapped  him  good-naturedly  on  the  shoulder.  “When  I was 
your  age,  old  fellow,  my  father  said  to  me,  Tf  I had  ni)^  life  to  live  over, 
I would  never  take  a glass  of  wine  nor  smoke  a cigar.’  I answered,  ‘It 
would  be  foolish  not  to  profit  by  what  such  a sensible  man  says.’  I 
have  never  tasted  wine  nor  touched  tobacco,  and  I am  glad  of  it — gladder 
every  day  I live.  I might  have  been  built  with  a strong  head,  and  then 
again  I might  not.” 

“What  do  you  say  when  you  are  offered  a treat?” 

“I  say,  ‘No,  thank  you;  I never  take  it.’  Generally  that  settles  the 
matter  quietly.” 

‘"And  if  they  poke  fun  at  you?” 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


477 


“I  let  them  poke,  and  stand  by  to  be  ready  to  put  them  to  bed  when 
their  heads  give  out.” 

There  are — for  the  comfort  of  others,  let  it  be  said — many  strong 
enough  to  maintain  this  stand ; sensible  enough  to  see  that  the  risks  are 
not  worth  taking. — Watchman. 

MORAL  SUASION  OR  PROHIBITION,  WHICH  SHALL  IT  BE? 

A young  man  once  advised  me  to  advocate  pure  moral  suasion. 
At  a meeting  where  this  young  man  was  present,  I said  to  the  audience, 
pointing  to  him,  “Some  say  we  ought  to  advocate  moral  suasion  ex- 
clusively. Now,  I will  give  you  a fact.  Thirteen  miles  from  this  place 
there  lived  a woman  who  was  a good  wife,  a good  mother,  a good 
woman.”  I then  related  her  story  as  she  told  it: 

“ ‘My  husband  is  a drunkard ; I have  worked,  and  hoped,  and  prayed, 
but  I almost  gave  up  in  despair.  He  went  away  and  was  gone  ten  days. 
He  came  back  ill  with  the  small-pox.  Two  of  the  children  took  it,  and 
both  of  them  died.  I nursed  my  husband  through  his  long  sickness — 
watched  over  him  night  and  day,  feeling  that  he  could  not  drink  again, 
nor  ever  again  abuse  me.  I thought  he  would  remember  all  this  terrible 
experience.  Mr.  Leonard  kept  a liquor-shop  about  three  doors  from  my 
house,  and  soon  after  my  husband  was  well  enough  to  get  out,  Mr. 
Leonard  invited  him  in  and  gave  him  some  drink.  He  was  then  worse 
than  ever.  He  now  beats  me  and  bruises  me.  ...  I went  into  Mr. 
Leonard’s  shop  one  day,  nerved  almost  to  madness,  and  said,  “ ‘ “Mr. 
Leonard,  I wish  you  would  not  sell  my  husband  any  more  drink.” 

“ ‘Get  out  of  this,’  said  he,  ‘away  with  you.  This  is  no  place  for 
a woman ; clear  out.” 

“ ‘But  I don’t  want  you  to  sell  him  any  more  drink.’ 

“‘Get  out,  will  you?  If  5^u  wasn’t  a woman,  I would  knock 
you  into  the  middle  of  the  street.” 

“ ‘Mr.  Leonard,  please  don’t  sell  my  husband  any  more  drink.' 

“ ‘Mind  your  own  business,  I say.’ 

“ ‘But  my  husband’s  business  is  mine,’  I pleaded. 

“ ‘Get  out ! If  you  don’t,  I will  put  you  out.’ 

“ ‘I  ran  out  and  the  man  was  very  angry.  Three  days  after  a neigh- 
bor came  in  and  said,  “Mrs.  Tuttle,  your  Ned’s  just  been  sent  out  of 
Leonard’s  shop  so  drunk  that  he  can  hardly  stand !” 


478 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


“‘What!  my  child,  who  is  only  ten  years  old?’  “Yes.” 

“ ‘The  child  was  picked  up  in  the  street  and  brought  home,  and  it 
was  four  days  before  he  got  out  again.  I then  went  into  Leonard’s 
shop  and  said,  “You  gave  my  boy,  Ned,  drink.” 

“ ‘Get  out  of  this,  I tell  you,’  said  the  man. 

“‘I  said,  “I  don’t  want  you  to  give  my  boy  drink  any  more.  You 
have  ruined  my  husband;  for  God’s  sake,  spare  my  child!”  and  I went 
down  upon  my  knees  and  tears  ran  down  my  cheeks.  He  then  took  me 
by  the  shoulders  and  kicked  me  out  of  doors.’  ” 

Then,  said  I,  pointing  directly  to  my  friend,  “Young  man,  you  talk 
of  moral  suasion  ? Suppose  that  woman  were  your  mother,  what  would 
you  do  to  the  man  who  kicked  her?”  He  jumped  right  off  his  seat  and 
said,  “I’d  kill  him.  That’s  moral  suasion,  is  it?  Yes,  I’d  kill  him,  just 
as  I’d  kill  a woodchuck  that  had  eaten  my  beans.” 

Now,  we  do  not  go  as  far  as  that;  we  do  not  believe  in  killing  or 
persecution,  but  we  believe  in  prevention  and  prohibition. — John  B. 
Gough. 

AND  WHISKEY  DID  IT. 

It  was  the  early  hour  of  a Sabbath  night  in  mid-summer.  Peace 
seemed  to  be  claiming  our  city  for  her  own.  Worshippers  by  hundreds 
had  gathered  in  our  various  churches  to  reverently  speak  in  prayer,  and 
song,  and  sermon,  the  blessed  name  of  our  Prince  of  Peace.  The  still- 
ness and  sweet  solemnity  of  the  sacred  day  dwelt  around  us ; and  we 
were  thanking  God  for  the  joy  of  rest  and  security  and  calm  content. 
Suddenly,  as  if  hell  had  grown  jealous  of  heaven’s  temporary  reign  on 
earth,  there  rang  out  five  murderous  pistol  shots,  followed  by  the  agoniz- 
in2?  screams  of  a dying  woman  ; and  again  by  the  terrified  cry  of  a horror^ 
stricken  mother  who  looked  aghast  upon  a scene  of  blood  and  death. 
And  what  an  appalling  scene  was  that  upon  which  that  grief-crazed 
mother  gazed ! Her  daughter  and  her  son  lay  dead,  slain  by  the  hand 
of  that  daughter’s  young  husband ; and  just  outside  the  desolated  but 
once  happy,  though  humble,  home,  the  murderer  lay  gasping  for  breath, 
two  ghastly,  self-inflicted  wounds  in  his  breast.  He  had  sought  his  own 
life  after  he  had  taken  the  life  of  his  wife  and  that  of  her  manly  young 
brother.  It  was  all  over  in  a moment — all?  No,  not  all,  for  the  aged 
mother’s  cruel  sorrow  had  only  just  begun;  and  the  long  night  of  the 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


479 


life  of  humiliation  which  must  be  endured  by  the  now  motherless  and 
worse  than  fatherless  children  had  just  now  entered  its  dusk.  All  over? 
No,  for  the  surgeons  say  that  the  death  which  the  drunken  young  man 
wooed  for  himself  may  not  be  won;  unhappily  for  him,  professional 
skill  and  an  abnormally  robust  constitution  may  restore  him  to  life, 
and — remorse,  a remorse  which  only  the  hangman’s  noose  can  kill. 
Gaping  crowds  of  curious  and  unfeeling  people  throng  the  sidewalks 
and  push  into  the  wrecked  home  and  stare  at  the  aged  woman  who  sits 
in  her  wretched  loneliness  and  weeps  over  her  poor  dead  children.  There 
is  a coroner’s  inquest  and  a terrible  double  funeral — and — despair. 

Nine  years  ago  there  was  a festal  scene.  It  was  a marriage  evening. 
A pure  young  girl  had  been  wedded  to  a handsome  and  apparently 
honest  and  promising  young  mechanic.  The  mother,  younger  then,  and 
stronger,  sat  by  amid  the  merriment,  and  heard  with  a fond  mother’s 
pride  the  cordial  words  of  congratulation,  the  generous  praise  which 
friends  showered  upon  the  youthful  husband  and  his  radiantly  happy 
bride.  Sacred  words  had  been  spoken  by  the  minister  who,  in  God’s 
dear  name,  had  made  the  twain  one  flesh.  Their  life  together  had 
begun ; and  the  mother  of  the  girl-wife  said,  “Surely  they  will  be  happy 
— surely,  surely.” 

Just  eight  years ; but  the  time  was  long  enough  for  the  serpent  to 
enter  that  Eden  and  despoil  it.  It  was  not  many  months  after  this 
scene  of  brilliant  joy  and  cheery  laughter,  and  happy  hope  beginnings, 
until  this  same  husband  began  to  drink,  a little  at  first,  then  more,  until 
beastly  drunkenness  was  his  pitiable  portion.  With  his  own  degradation 
there  crept  into  his  mind  the  poison  of  a hellish  suspicion  that  his  wife, 
too,  had  grown  unfaithful.  It  may  not  have  been  a wholly  groundless 
suspicion.  The  world  may  never  know.  Certain  it  is  that  if  she,  who 
had  pledged  her  troth  to  a man  so  unworthy,  was  not  stalwart  in  char- 
acter, she  must  have  found  it  hard  to  be  true  to  him  who  was  so  basely 
untrue  to  her. 

The  sequel  of  this  awful  story  was  told'  in  the  introduction  ; and 
whiskey  did  it.  His  closest  friends  declare  that,  when  sober  and  before 
he  became  a slave  to  the  saloon,  this  young  man  was  large-hearted,  and 
genial,  and  honorable,  peaceable  and  manly.  He  is  a double  murderer 
now;  and  before  these  lines  are  read,  the  word  “suicide”  may  be  added 
M)  the  record  he  has  written  in  blood.  God  pity  and  save  him;  and, 


480 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


O,  God,  pity  the  living  sufferers  in  his  own  family  and  in  the  tamily 
of  his  poor  slaughtered  wife ! 

Yes,  reader,  we  are  quite  as  willing  to  end  this  heart-chilling  recital 
as  you  are  anxious  to  have  it  ended.  It  is  a true  story,  thoitgh,  and  it 
occurred  right  here  in  Nashville,  Sunday,  August  22.  True,  the  parties 
to  the  tragedy  were  not  members  of  your  family  nor  of  ours,  not  ^ven 
acquaintances ; but  they  belonged  to  other  families  nevertheless,  and 
they  were  loved  and  are  lost ; and,  with  drink  to  aid  in  arousing  the 
slumbering  demon  that  lurks  in  most  of  our  souls,  these  things  might 
have  occurred  in  any  of  our  households.  What,  then,  is  the  plain  duty 
of  the  hour?  Here  it  is — join  us  in  it,  and  let  God  witness  our  vow — • 
death  to  the  saloon ! — Cumberland  Presbyterian. 

THE  STRUGGLE  WITH  APPETITE. 

I shall  never  drink  again,  but  one  night  in  a New  England  train, 
and  very  ill,  I met  a stranger  who  pitied  me  and  gave  me  a quick,  power- 
ful drug  out  of  a small  vial,  and'  my  pain  was  gone  in  a minute  or  two, 
but  alcohol  was  licking  up  my  very  blood  with  tongues  of  flame. 

I should  have  gotten  drunk  that  night,  if  I could.  I thought  of 
everything — of  my  two  3'ears  of  clean  life ; of  the  'meeting  I was  going 
to,  vouched  for  by  my  friend  and  brother,  D.  L.  IMoody ; of  the  bright 
little  home  in  New  York;  of  Mary  and  the  bo3'S ; I tried  to  pra3',  and 
my  lips  framed  oaths.  I reached  up  for  God,  and  He  was  gone,  and  the 
fiercest  fiend  of  hell  had  me  b3'  the  throat  and'  shouted,  “Drink.  Drink, 
Drink!”  I said,  “But  ]\Iar3- — but  the  bo3's”;  it  said,  “To  hell  with  !Mar3’- 
— come  on,  to  the  saloon !” 

It  was  not  3'et  da3'light,  Sunda3’  morning,  when  I stood  on  the  plat- 
form at  Pawtucket,  Rhode  Island,  alone.  I flew  from  saloon  to  saloon, 
they  were  shut  up,  so  were  the  drug  stores;  and  all  that  da3',  locked  up 
in  my  room  at  the  hotel,  I fought  m3’  fight  and  won  it  in  the  evening  b3* 
the  grace  of  Godf  but  the  people  of  Pawtucket  never  knew  that  the  man 
who  spoke  to  them  that  night  had  been  in  hell  all  da3U 

What  would  3’ou  take  in  cash  to  have  that  put  into  3’our  life  ? 

That  is  to  be  my  portion  until  my  dying  day;  but  if  merciful,  patient 
time  shall  cauterize  and  heal  the  old,  dishonorable  wounds,  and  cover 
them  with  repulsive  but  impervious  cicatrices,  3’et  because  I had  those 
wounds  I am  to  be  through  my  whole'  life  considered  a moral  cliff- 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


481 


dweller,  a creature  of  precipices,  where  one  false  step  ends  all;  and  so, 
denied  full  confidence  of  my  fellow  men — the  highest  grace  of  life  to 
strive  for,  in  this  world;  and  I am  told  I have  a Christian  enemy  or  two 
who  wait  on  tiptoe  of  expectancy  and  cheerfully  prophesy  the  sure,  near 
coming  of  my  final  plunge  back  into  the  Dead  Sea  of  drink. 

Several  years  ago,  at  another  time,  after  a long  lecture  tour  in  the 
west,  I telegraphed  to  my  wife  in  Boston : ‘T  will  arrive  home  tonight 
at  eleven.”  The  train  was  late,  and  long  after  midnight  I came  under 
her  window.  The  light  was  burning,  and  I knew  that  she  was  waiting 
for  me.  I let  myself  in ; there  were  two  flights  of  stairs,  but  twenty 
would  have  been  nothing  to  me,  my  heart  was  hauling  away,  like  a great 
balloon. 

She  stood  in  the  middle  of  our  room  as  pale  and  cold  and  motionless 
as  a woman  of  snow,  and  I knew  at  a glance  that  the  sweet,  brave  life 
was  in  torture.  “What  is  it?”  I cried,  “What  is  the  matter?”  and  in  my 
arms  she  sobbed  out  the  everlasting  tragedy  of  her  wedded  life:  “Nothing 
— at  any  rate,  nothing  ought  to  be  the  matter.  I do  believe  in  you ; I 
knew  you  would  come  home ; but  I have  listened  for  you  so  many  years, 
that  I seem  to  be  just  one  great  ear  when  you  are  away  beyond  your 
time ; I seem  to  have  lost  all  sense  but  that  of  hearing  when  you  are 
absent  unexplained,  and  every  sound  on  the  street  startles  me,  and 
every  step  on  the  stairs  is  a threat  and  a pain,  and  the  stillness  chokes 
me,  and  the  darkness  smothers  me.  And  all  the  old,  unhappy,  home 
comings  troop  through  my  mind,  without  omitting  one  detail,  and  to- 
night I heard  the  children  sighing  in  their  sleep,  and  I thought  I should 
die  when  I thought  of  you  having  to  walk  in  your  weariness,  and  in  this 
midnight  through  Kneeland  street  alone.” 

She  thinks  that  I will  never  fall ; and  would  deny  today  that  she 
knowS'  any  fear,  but  yet,  until  the  undertaker  screws  her  sweet  face  out 
of  my  sight  forever,  that  ghastly,  unformed,  nameless  thing  will  walk 
the  chambers  of  her  heart  whenever  I am  unaccounted  for. 

By  the  mercy  of  God,  that  has  given  to  you  the  unshaken  and  un 
shakable  confidence  of  her  you  love,  I beseech  you  to  make  a fight  for  the 
women  who  wait  tonight  until  the  saloon  spews  out  their  husbands  and 
their  sons  and  sends  them  maudlin,  brutish,  devilish,  vomiting,  stinking, 
to  their  arms. 

And  you,  happy  wives,  whose  hearts  have  never  wavered  nor  had 
occasion  to  waver,  and  who,  when  your  husbands  fail  to  come  on  time, 


482 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


can  go  to  bed  without  a fear  and  go  to  sleep  with  smiles  upon  your  lips, 
and  sleep  the  long  night  through  too  peacefully  even  to  dream,  by  the 
mercy  of  God,  that  gives  you  that,  I beseech  you,  band  yourselves  to 
help,  at  least  to  cheer,  the  wives,  who,  their  whole  lives  through,  must 
walk  the  rotten  lava-crust  of  burntout  confidence — their  very  love  a 
terror  and  a pain. 

And  you,  good,  calm,  untempted  men  who  never  fell,  who  never 
tasted  death  for  any  man  and  never  mean  to,  I beseech  you  to  cast  a vote 
the  next  time  for  the  sake  of  the  drunkard,  and  try  to  make  the  stations 
on  life’s  highway  safe  for  storm-tossed  men  to  stop  at  any  day  or  any 
night. — John.  G.  Woolley. 

CHARLES  LAMB  TO  YOUNG  MEN. 

Charles  Lamb,  one  of  England’s  great  writers,  was  a hard  drinker. 
Listen  to  his  sad  wail : 

“The  waters  have  gone  over  me.  But  out  of  the  black  depths,  could 
I be  heard,  I could  cry  out  to  all  those  who  have  set  a foot  in  the  perilous 
flood.  Could  the  youth  to  whom  the  flavor  of  his  first  wine  is  delicious 
as  the  opening  scenes  of  life,  or  the  entering  upon  some  newly-discovered 
paradise,,  look  into  my  desolation,  and  be  made  to  understand  what  a 
dreary  thing  it  is  when  a man  shall  feel  himself  going  down  a precipice 
with  open  eyes  and  a passive  will — to  see  his  destruction  and  have  no 
power  to  stop  it,  and  yet  feel  it  all  the  way  emanating  from  himself;  to 
see  all  godliness-  emptied  out  of  him,  and  yet  not  able  to  forget  a time 
when  it  was  otherwise ; to  bear  about  him  the  piteous  spectacle  of  his 
own  ruin ; could  he  see  my  feverish  eye — feverish  with  the  last  night’s 
drinking  and  feverishly  looking  for  tonight’s  repetition  of  the  folly; 
could  he  but  feel  the  body  of  death  out  of  which  I cr}',  hourly  with 
feebler  outcry;  to  be  delivered — it  were  enough  to  make  him  dash  the 
sparkling  beverage  to  the  earth,  in  all  the  pride  of  its  mantling  tempta- 
tion.”— Tract. 


PART  III 

POINTED 

PARAGRAPHS 


HELP  PROTECT  THE  HOME 

It  is  the  bounden  duty  of  every  man  to  protect  his  family  from  perils  and  dangers. 
The  worst  dansrer  is  the  Curse  of  Drink  and  the  worst  evil  The  Saloon. 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


485 


I 

Those  who  fondle  the  serpent  shall  feel  its  fangs. 

* 4 4 * 

Rum  is  all  right  in  its  place^  and  that  is — in  hell. 

4!  ■*  * * 

“A  whiskey  straight  has  made  many  men  crooked.” 

The  skeleton  in  many  a closet  is  a long-necked  bottle. 

“We  favor  shorter  hours  for  overworked  bartenders.” 

Whiskey  is  expensive.  It  costs  a man  dollars  and  sense. 

4!  ^ 4 

Strong  drink  is  bad  for  the  health  as  well  as  for  the  pocket. 

Grape  juice  has  killed  more  than  grape  shot. — C.  H.  Spurgeon. 

4^  * * 4i 

Intemperance  is  the  great  crime  of  crimes. — Hon.  L.  M.  Morril. 

The  cause  of  drunkenness  is  drink;  the  cure  is  total  abstinence. 

45  ^ 45 

Drink,  the  dynamite  of  modern  civilization. — Hon.  John  D.  Long. 

“The  man  who  ‘hits  one’  usually  strikes  those  most  dear  to  him.” 

45 

Drink,  the  only  terrible  enemy  England  has  to  fear. — Prince  Leopold. 

45 

Many  a man  who  sets  out  to  kill  a giant  is  tripped  up  by  an  old 
barrel  hoop. 

45  45  '45 

“A  wry  face  may  be  made  cheaper  than  a rye  face,  and  is  more 
easily  cured.” 

4t  4^  4^  45 

He  who  would  regulate  the  saloon,  should  first  try  to  regulate 
Mt.  Sinai. 

-45  -45 

Wine  may  sometimes  move  itself  aright,  but  always  moves  the 
drinker  wrong. 


486 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


,.T 

Prohibition  strengthens  education,  religion  and  law;  the  saloon 
helps  neither.  ■> 

« * f 

The  saloon  was  born  of  evil,  but  it  exists  because  good  men 
tolerate  it.  • 

‘'From  drink,  with  its  sorrow  and  ruin  and  sin, 

I surely  am  safe  if  I never  begin.” 

* ^ 4 

You  can’t  fight  the  saloon  in  a whisky  party.  This  is  a good  time  . 
to  get  out  of  it. 

Many  a man  would  rather  lose  his  boy  than  lose  his  vote,  or  at  least 
he  acts  that  way. 

4!  4 * 4 \ 

Chicago’s  drink  bill  for  three  years  equals  the  amount  of  property 
destroyed  by  the  great  fire. 

^*44! 

Man  is  at  his  best  when  he  shows  greatest  chivalry  in  defense  of 
the  women  and  children. 

4 « * 4 

I never  use  it;  I am  more  afraid  of  it  than  of  Yankee  bullets. — 
General  Stonewall  Jackson. 

4 4^  * * 

“They  that  be  drunken  are  drunken  in  the  night.  Let  us  who  are 
of  the  day  be  sober.” — Paul. 

4^  « 4^  4 

Intoxicating  liquor  is  one  great  source  of  all  wrong,  misery  and 
crime. — Gov.  Thomas  Talbot. 

* * ^ « 

If  we  had  a sober  nation,  Mr.  Statesman,  don’t  you  think  we  could 
make  short  work  of  the  trusts? 

* « « * 

“Beer  is  a far  more  dangerous  enemy  to  Germany  than  all  the 
armies  of  France.” — Von  Moltke. 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


487 


The  saloon  gives  aid  and  comfort  to  the  vides  of  the  people,  while 
prohibition  encourages  the  virtues. 

* 4 * 4!  ' 

( 

"The  mission  of  the  Prohibition  party  is  to  teach  the  old  parties  that 
there  is  a God  in  Israel,” — Gov.  St.  John. 

* * * * 

A total  abstainer  is  good.  A total  abstinence  society  is  better. 
Little  is  gained  without  organization. 

The  drinker  is  simply  amusing  himself  with  the  rattle  of  his  chains 
when  he  brags  of  his  power  of  moderation. 

Men  need  no  stimulant.  It  is  something  I am  persuaded  they  can 
get  along  without. — General  Robert  E.  Lee. 

4 * ^ 

And  the  cocktail’s  red  glare,  the  bomb  bursting  in  air,  gave  proof 
that  some  things  must  be  handled  with  care. 

4!  4^  « * 

The  quartette  of  drink,  debt,  dirt  and  doubt,  is  to  many  a man 
but  another  version  of  the  game  of  follow  your  leader. 

It  isn’t  the  drop  in  wages  that  hurts  a man  so  much  as  the  drop 
he  takes  after  getting  his  wages.  That’s  what  drops  him. 

* * ^ 4! 

Alcohol  is  poison.  For  a country  to  legalize  the  sale  of  a poison 
for  beverage  purposes  is  one  way  for  it  to  commit  suicide. 

4 4 4^  * 

License  makes  it  EASY  to  do  wrong  and  HARD  to  do  right; 
prohibition  makes  it  hard  to  do  wrong  and  easy  to  do  right. 

^ * 45  4 

More  schoolhouses  and  fewer  saloons.  That’s  a pretty  good  plat- 
form, but  ours  is  better — More  schoolhouses  and  no  saloons. 

4^  4 45  * 

"Though  a member  of  the  ‘sterner  sex,’  we  believe  it  is  much  more 
becoming  to  wear  the  little  white  ribbon  than  the  big  red  nose.” 


488 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


If  “prohibition  does  not  prohibit,”  then  regulation  don’t  regulate, 
restriction  don’t  restrict  and  execution  don’t  execute. — Andrew  Johnson. 

# * * ^ 

God  sends  us  nothing  but  what  is  naturally  wholesome  and  fit  to 
nourish  us,  but  if  the  devil  has  the  cooking  of  it,  it  may  destroy  us. 

4 ^ ^ ^ 

No  one  knows  the  wrecking  influence  of  drink  like  he  who  has  been 
wrecked,  and  then  stranded  on  the  reefs  of  shame  and  disgrace. 

Does  prohibition  prohibit?  is  a minor  question  to  this  one:  Do  I 
give  my  SANCTION  to  the  sale  of  strong  drink  in  Lynchburg? 

^ ^ ^ * 

“Come  ye  out  from  among  them”  applies  with  great  force  to  clean 
men  connected  with  corrupt,  dishonest,  whisky-soaked  politicians. 

4 ^ 

In  the  “first”  glass  that  a young  chap  drinks  is  found  a true  story 
of  the  “last” ! It  is  all  written  there  even  though  he  cannot  read  it. 

The  pious  people  who  vote  to  legalize  the  sale  of  liquor  on  Monday 
must  expect  to  sooner  or  later  see  it  legally  sold  on  Sunday. — Defender. 

You  cannot  regulate  the  liquor  traffic,  and  there  is  no  use  wasting 
vour  energies,  time,  money  and  disgusting  yourself  trying  to  do  so. 

^ 4 

If  those  who  are  searching  after  a “sure  cure  for  drunkenness” 

would  quit  drinking  while  they  are  looking  for  it,  they  would  find  it. 

^ 4 ^ ^ 

The  devil  doesn’t  mind  anti-liquor  resolutions  being  carried  at 
church  conferences,  so  long  as  they  are  not  given  effect  at  the  ballot-box. 

* # ^ * 

“The  man  who  feels  no  moral  responsibility,  who  kneels  at  no 
shrine,  who  has  no  religious  belief,  is  pretty  poor  material  for  citizenship.” 

^ 

The  man  who  votes  for  a license  party  ought  not  to  object  if  any 
one  of  his  boys  falls  in  the  saloon  trap  which  his  own  ballot  helped 
to  set. 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


489 


A sober  father  does  not  always  mean  sober  sons,  but  the  influence 
for  temperate  living  that  a sober  father  exerts  in  a household  is  very 
great. 

No  man  has  a good  word  for  drunkenness.  Why,  then,  should 
Lynchburg  continue  the  policy  of  making  her  citizens  DRUNK  BY 
LAW? 

^ * 

Temperance  and  labor  are  the  two  best  physicians  of  man ; labor 
sharpens  the  appetite,  and  temperance  prevents  him  from  indulging  in 
excess. 

* 4!  * A 

The  makers  and  dealers  in  rum  often  profit  financially  through  the 
saloon  at  the  expense  ofi  the  masses.  Are  you  a dealer  or  one  of  the 
masses? 

* 4 * 

If  the  ballot  box  were  a gramophone,  it  would  undoubtedly  record 
and  reproduce  some  extraordinary  feats  performed  by  our  religious 
acrobats. 

The  hand  that  crushed  liberty  in  the  Philippines  is  just  as  surely 
crushing  it  here.  If  you  have  any  tears,  shed  them  for  your  own 
stupidity. 

It  is  easier  to  give  up  altogether  the  taste  of  intoxicating  drink 
than  to  measure  it  out  to  one’s  self.  Have  done  with  it  therefore, 
altogether. 

4-  4^  4^ 

Fifty  or  a hundred  men  united  in  the  cause  of  temperance  can 
certainly  do  much  more  good  than  if  they  tried  to  work  simply  as 
individuals. 

* 4:  4:  # 

You  pay  big  money  to  insure  your  house  against  the  fire  fiend. 
Why  not  put  a little  money  in  a cause  to  insure  your  son  against  the 
drink  fiend? 


490 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


I 

7 


“What  is  whiskey  bringing?”  inquired  a dealer  in  the  vile  stuff. 
“Bringing  men  to  the  gallows  and  women  and  children  to  want,”  was 
the  truthful  reply. 

4 « 4^  4 

When  the  enemies  of  the  saloon  shall  shun  license  parties  as  the 
saloon  men  shun  the  prohibition  party,  we  shall  soon  be  able  to  organize 
victory  for  our  homes. 

4:  4!  * 4 

Every  dollar  expended  for  liquors  as  a beverage  comes  out  of  the 
landlord,  grocer,  baker,  tailor,  butcher,  and  others  who  pursue  an  honest 
calling. — H.  H.  Faxon. 

^ ^ ^ ^ 

If  prohibition,  handicapped  as  it  is  by  the  inter-state  commerce  law, 
works  so  admirably  well,  what  would  it  do,  A fortiori,  if  it  had  a fair 
chance? — Andrew  Johnson. 


It  is  impossible  to  become  intoxicated  without  taking  one  drink. 
No  drunkard  on  earth  or  in  hell  would  be  where  he  is  if  he  had  not 
taken  one  drink.  Let  it  alone. 

^ 4;  ^ ^ 

Of  all  selfish  creatures  on  God’s  earth,  the  drunkard  is  the  meanest, 
because  his  meanness  wrecks  the  happiness  of  those  who  love  him  best 
— his  nearest  and  dearest. 

4!  * « 4t 

The  nation,  the  state,  the  town,  the  society,  or  the  church  wEich 
does  not  adopt  temperance  as  one  of  its  cardinal  virtues,  stands  upon 
uncertain  ground. — H.  H.  Faxon. 

A 4!  * 4: 

Statistics  show  that  ten  thousand  people  are  killed  by  whiskey, 
where  only  one  is  killed  by  a mad  dog.  What  of  it?  Shoot  the  mad 
dog,  and  license  the  sale  of  the  whiskey. 

^ A 4;  ^ 

The  liquor  fraternity  dislikes  prohibition  because  “prohibition  breeds 
blind  pigs.”  But  just  as  sure  as  prohibition  goes  into  effect  this  same 
liquor  fraternity  goes  right  into  the  breeding  business. 


( 


- 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


491 


It  is  necessary  for  the  clean  Christian  citizen  to  be  separated  from 
the  saloon  not  only  intellectually,  morally,  personally,  spiritually,  finan- 
cially, but  also  politically. — Andrew  Johnson. 

The  saloon  is  the  only  business  that  does  not  advertise  its  results 
or  point  to  its  successes.  No  “finished  goods”  sign  is  put  up  by  the 
liquor  dealer.  Look  for  that  in  the  potter’s  field. 

# # 4! 

“We  cannot  make  people  moral  by  law.”  No,  but  you  can  make 
them  immoral  by  licensing  immoral  institutions  by  law,  and  then  the 
people  will  become  more  immoral  as  a consequence. 

It  does  not  pay  to  give  one  man,  for  $15  a quarter,  a license  to  sell 
liquor,  and  then  spend  $5,000  on  the  trial  of  another  man  for  buying 
that  liquor  and  committing  murder  under  its  influence. 

I 

^ ^ ^ 

Every  ninth  day’s  wages  of  the  laborers  of  this  country  are  handed 
over  to  the  liquor  dealers,  putting  about  $900,000,000  annually  into  their 
coffers  — or  about  $13  for  every  man,  woman  and  child. 

4!  * 4!  4 

Bottled  woe,  squabbles,  inane  grumbling,  insane  drivel,  bruises  of 
shame,  not  glory,  are  on  sale.  Redness  of  eyes  is  on  tap.  Poverty  is 
purchasable,  but  one  must  pay  money,  health  and  honor. 

4!  4!  -4 

License  is  a tax.  Taxation  means  representation,  permission,  pro- 
tection and  perpetuity.  License  money  is  a bribe  and  the  acceptance  of 
it  by  the  United  States  is  a national  sin. — Andrew  Johnson. 

4^  4! 

A prohibition  speaker  was  interrupted  with  the  question,  “If  pro- 
hibition comes,  what  will  the  farmer  do  with  his  corn?”  As  quick  as  a 
flash  the  speaker  retorted,  “Raise  more  hogs  and  less  hell.” 

^ ' 4!  4s  45  ' 

You  shall  not  press  down  upon  the  brow  of  American  homes  the 
crown  of  thorns  platted  by  the  hand  of  the  liquor  traffic;  you  shall  not 
crucify  man  upon  a cross  of  high  license. — Andrew  Johnson. 


492 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


If,  in  the  future,  the  temperance  reform  is  to  be  more  fortunate 
than  in  the  past,  there  must  be  more  general,  united,  and  efficient  action 
for  its  promotion  by  the  pulpit  than  there  has  been  in  the  past. 

^ * 

Why  is  it?  If  prohibition  does  not  prohibit,  and  it  cannot  be  en- 
forced, as  liquor  papers  claim,  that  those  same  papers  frantically  appeal 
to  saloonkeepers  and  brewers  to  organize  and  oppose  prohibition? 

I have  rented  houses  for  more  than  thirty  years,  and  can  safely  say 
that  three-fourths  of  all  my  losses  in  rent  during  that  period  have  been 
due,  directly  or  indirectly,  to  the  use  of  intoxicating  liquors. — H.  H.  Faxon. 

4!  * * 4 

It  is  strange  with  what  conscientiousness  some  temperance  men 
refuse  to  “let”  their  property  to  be  used  for  dram  selling  purposes,  while, 
at  the  same  time  they  vote  to  license  their  neighbors’  on  the  same  street. 

A ^ ^ ^ 

The  Church  Temperance  Sunday  is  a good  thing,  but  the  country’s 
greatest  need  is  a Church  Temperance  Tuesday.  This  is  the  only  church 
celebration  that  has  any  scare  in  it  for  the  saloon. — Clinton  N.  Howard. 

^ 4!  4 ^ 

If  the  traffic  in  ardent  spirits  is  immoral,  then  of  necessity  are  the 
laws  which  authorize  the  traffic  immoral.  And  if  the  laws  are  immoral, 
then  we  must  be  immoral  if  we  do  not  protest  against  them. — Gerritt 
Smith. 

* 4:  ^ * 

A Scotch  woman  once  wanted  to  have  the  devil  buried  with  his  face 
downward,  so  that  the  more  he  scratched  the  deeper  he  would  go.  So 
it  should  be  with  the  liquor  traffic  — its  face  down,  and  no  resurrection 
written  on  its  back. 

A ^ ^ A 

Would  all  the  officers  unite  in  setting  the  soldiers  an  example  of 
total  abstinence  from  intoxicating  drinks,  it  would  be  equal  to  an 
addition  of  50,000  men  to  the  armies  of  the  CTnited  States. — General 
George  B.  McClellan. 

^ ^ ^ ^ 

“W e hang  the  murderer,  jail  the  thief  and  the  drunkard,  but  license 
the  manufacturer  of  murders,  the  makers  of  thieves  and  drunkards,  and 


StORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


493 


furnish  the  raw  material  from  our  homes  out  of  which  the  murderer, 
thief,  and  drunkard  are  made.” 

« * * # 

“A  saloonkeeper  discharged  a clerk  for  getting  drunk.  A distiller 
advertised  for  two  teetotalers  to  run  his  still.  A drunkard  is  at  a dis- 
count with  all  people.  Even  the  devil  wants  a more  respectable  man 
than  a drunkard  to  work  for  him.” 

* * 4!  * 

Now,  it  is  mad,  it  is  driveling,  to  talk  of  regulating  the  traffic  in 
intoxicating  beverages.  Raise  the  price  to  $10,000,  and  enact  that 
nobody  but  a doctor  of  divinity  shall  be  allowed  to  sell,  and  you  will 
have  the  same  old  devil. — Horace  Greeley. 

4k  4s 

Drunkenness  is  not  only  the  cause  of  crime,  it  is  a crime ; and  the 
encouragement  of  drunkenness  for  the  sake  of  profit  on  the  sale  of  drink 
is  certainly  one  of  the  most  criminal  methods  of  assassination  for  money 
ever  adopted  by  the  bravoes  of  any  age  or  country. 

4k  4S  4k  * 

What  does  it  profit  a man  to  send  his  children  to  school,  accumulate 
property,  build  big  barns,  etc.,  for  his  children,  if  his  son  is  to  go  to  ruin 
through  the  grog-shop,  and  his  daughter  to  preside  over  a drunkard’s 
hovel?  Let  us  S3,ve  our  children. — Sacred  Heart  Review. 

4k  4k 

A saloon  in  New  York  is  in  trouble  because,  according  to  the  limit 
law,  it  is  too  close  to  a church.  Which  should  move  in  such  a case,  the 
church  or  the  saloon?  But  are  not  all  the  saloons  in  the  city  too  close 
to  the  churches  and  too  close  to  the  homes  of  the  people? 

4k  4!  4k  * 

A little  boy  was  going  past  a liquor  saloon,  the  door  of  which  was 
open,  with  his  dog.  Sport.  The  dog  not  knowing  any  better,  went  in, 
but  his  little  master  was  soon  after  him,  with  the  following  good  advice : 
“Come  out  there.  Sport ! Don’t  be  disgracing  the  family.” 

A boy  was  passing  by  a saloon,  and  seeing  a drunken  man  lying  in 
the  gutter  in  front  of  it,  he  opened  the  door  and  said:  “Mister,  your 
sign’s  fell  down.” 

The  saloonkeeper  chased  him  half  around  the  square. 


494 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


Much  ado  is  made  about  child  labor  in  factories  and  night  work  for 
women,  when  every  sociologist  well  knows  that  if  the  traffic  in  drink 
were  outlawed,  and  a fair  effort  made  to  crush  it,  in  a few  years  these 
problems  would  be  well  solved. — Pittsburg  Christian  Advocate. 

41' ' ^ ^ ' 

“Tom,”  said  a drunkard  to  his  friend,  “where  shall  I find  the  poor- 
house?  I should  like  to  see  it.” 

“My  dear  friend,  continue  in  your  present  course  a short  time  longer, 
and  you  will  not  need  to  ask  the  question,”  was  the  pointed  reply. 

^ 

The  whiskey  business  is  the  poison  vine  which  entwines  itself  around 
the  oaks  of  our  national  prosperity,  the  noxious  weed  that  has  sprung 
up  in  the  garden  "of  American  industries,  the  nauseating  bilge-water  in 
our  glorious  ship  of  state,  the  pest  of  all  ages. — Andrew  Johnson. 

4 

Drink  is  the  parent  of  crime.  It  would  not  be  too  much  to  say 
that  if  all  drinking  of  fermented  liquors  could  be  done  away,  crime  of 
every  kind  would  fall  to  a fourth  of  its  present  amount,  and  the  whole 
tone  of  moral  feeling  in  the  lower  orders  might  be  indefinitely  raised. — 
Buxton. 

Five  dollars  for  whiskey  means  the  loss  of  three  weeks’  work.  The 
loss  of  three  weeks’  work  means  the  loss  to  your  family  of  a barrel  of 
flour,  a load  of  coal,  shoes  for  all,  and  the  contracting  of  a debt  for 
necessaries  that  require  the  sacrifice  of  everything  that  makes  home 
life  dear. 

4 4^  * 4 

In  the  debate  in  the  United  States  Congress  on  the  question  of  the 
repeal  of  the  prohibitory  law  of  Alaska,  Senator  Hansbrough,  of  North 
Dakota,  hit  the  nail  on  the  head  when  he  said:  “A  high  license  law  is 
simply  a certificate  of  partnership  between  the  government  and  the 
saloonkeeper.” 

4 4 4!  4 

We  can  never  get  the  saloon  out  of  politics  as  long  as  we  get  our 
politics  out  of  the  saloon.  Just  laws  will  never  be  enforced  by  corrupt 
officials  who  depend  upon  criminals  to  back  them  up.  If  you  appoint  a 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


495 


rascal  to  be  his  own  hangman,  he  will  probably  die  a natural  death. — 
H.  H.  Faxon. 

4!! 

Drive  the  evil  from  the  school  through  education,  banish  it  from  the 
home  through  love,  rule  it  from  society  by  decency,  dislodge  it  from 
business  by  economy ; but  wilt  thou  know,  oh  vain  man,  that  it  takes 
ballots  with  which  to  drive  it  from  its  favorite  entrenchment  of  politics. 
— Andrew  Johnson. 

^ 

The  rum  business  is  an  Ishmealite,  its  hand  is  against  every  man. 
The  fact  that  every  man’s  hand  is  not  against  it  is  one  of  the  marvels 
of  our  time.  By-and-by  this  will  change  and  the  liquor  business  will 
go  to  the  doom  it  has  long  deserved. — President  Charles  A.  Blanchard, 
Wheaton  College. 

^ 

Drink  is  the  mortal  enemy-of  peace  and  order,  the  despoiler  of  men 
and  terror  of  women,  the  cloud  that  shadows  the  faces  of  children,  the 
demon  that  has  dug  more  graves  and  sent  more  souls  unshrived  to 
judgment  than  all  the  pestilences  that  have  wasted  life  since  God  sent 
the  plagues  of  Egypt. 

Should  these  wages' of  iniquity  be  put  into  the  treasury?  They  are 
the  price  of  blood,  and  in  their  aggregate  would  be  inadequate  to  buy 
fields  enough  to  bury  the  multitudes  who  are  victims  of  the  dreadful 
traffic  for  whose  profits  they  sell  the  people’s  sanction. — State  Board  of 
Charities  of  Pennsylvania. 

High  license  for  the  privilege  of  whiskey-selling  means  that  the 
whiskey-devil  will  strike  higher  game.  It  tends  also  to  make  an  aris- 
tocracy of  evil.  The  man  who  can  afford  to  pay  a thousand  dollars  for 
the  privilege  of  helping  the  devil  in  his  murderous  work,  ought  to  have 
a seat  in  his  front  parlor. 

4- 

Why  is  it?  If  there  is  more  liquor  sold  in  a town  which  has  voted 
no-license  under  local  option  than  in  a town  under  license,  as  liquor  men 
claim,  why  is  it  that  liquor  men  have  organized  to  defeat  local  option, 


496 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


and  why  are  they  appealing  to  brewers  and  wholesalers  to  assist  them 
with  money  in  their  fight? 

* * * * 

When  some  one  tried  to  rebuke  Mark  Guy  Pearse  for  preaching 
temperance  sermons  by  reminding  him  that  his  duty  as  pastor  consisted 
in  taking  care  of  his  flock,  he  replied : “The  sheep  are  all  right  just 
now;  I am  looking  after  the  wolf.”  One  way  of  caring  for  the  sheep 
is  to  put  an  end  to  the  wolf. 

It  seems  very  strange  that  the  liquor  traffic  is  spending  its  millions 
in  trying  to  fight  the  prohibition  movement  and  at  the  same  time  claim 
that  prohibition  increases  the  sale  of  liquor  and  the  amount  consumed. 
The  American  voter  is  a hard-headed  individual  with  a sense  of  humor 
and  is  not  to  be  hoodwinked  with  such  nonsense. 

4!  4^  4^  ^ 

The  saloon  is  the  school  of  political  debauchery,  and  it  is  against 
this  debasing  influence  that  all  true  temperance  men  should  direct  their 
efforts.  The  rum-seller  in  his  dive  forges  the  tools  by  which  he  bur- 
glariously enters  the  happy  home  of  the  laboring  man  and  steals  the 
bread  from  the  mouths  of  the  family. — H.  H.  Faxon. 

* 4 4!  4^ 

It  is  high  time  for  some  kind  of  an  organization  to  teach  people  that 
the  free  coinage  of  boys  into  drunkards,  of  men  into  maniacs,  of  homes 
into  hovels,  is  a bigger  question  than  the  coinage  of  silver.  The  pro- 
tection to  the  homes  of  the  nation  is  a bigger  question  than  the  amount 
of  tariff  that  should  be  assessed  on  a barrel  of  axle-grease. 

4 4:  * « 

One  drink  is  what  gives  the  policeman  his  job,  pays  the  salary  of 
the  police  judge,  puts  silk  on  the  saloonkeepers’s  wife,  fills  the  drunkard's 
wife’s  closet  with  skeletons  and  rags,  and  is  the  primary  ingredient  in  a 
mixture  that  paints  a cartoon  of  misery  and  woe  on  the  drunkard's 
face  that  is  not  duplicated  anywhere  else  this  side  of  hell. 

4:  4^  4^  * 

When  the  citizen  brings  to  the  altar  of  his  country  and  his  God  an 
offering  against  the  saloon,  no  portion  of  the  goods  must  be  kept  back. 
If  he  presents  the  wares  of  sentiment,  thought  and  abstinence  and  does 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


497 


not  deliver  the  political  portion  of  the  goods  at  the  ballot  box,  he  is  in 
danger  of  becoming  a member  of  the  Ananias  club. — Andrew  Johnson. 

^ * 4^ 

The  Bar-Room  as  a Bank. — You  deposit  your  money  — and  lose  it. 
Tour  time  — and  lose  it.  Your  character  — and  lose  it.  Your  health  — 
and  lose  it.  Your  strength — ^and  lose  it.  Your  manly  independence  — 
and  lose  it.  Your  home  comfort  — and  lose  it.  Your  wife’s  happiness  — 
and  lose  it.  Your  children’s  happiness  — and  lose  it.  Your  own  soul  — 
and  lose  it. 

4i  ^ 4! 

Saloon  men  often  boast  that  they  “start  things.”  They  do,  bungs, 
also  brawls,  lawsuits,  trouble,  expense,  debt,  corruption,  misery,  ruin, 
shame,  and  hell.  They  are  strong  on  the  start.  They  also  “finish 
things,”  happiness,  home,  reputation,  self-respect,  reason,  love,  position, 
hope.  Any  man  who  “takes  a little”  to  clear  his  vision  ought  to  “see 
his  own  finish.” — Wisconsin  Issue. 

4:  * * 4 

In  Sv/eden  the  saloons  are  closed  on  pay  day,  and  the  banks  are 
kept  open  from  early  morning  until  midnight.  The  government  is 
protecting  the  laboring  men  against  the  greedy,  ruinous  saloon  traffic, 
and  encouraging  them  to  put  their  money  in  the  bank.  It  would  be  a 
commendatory  act  if  our  government  would  take  an  equal  interest  in 
her  subjects. — Arkansas  Searchlight. 

The  distiller  is  armed  with  a ballot ; the  brewer  is  armed  with  a 
ballot;  the  saloon-keeper  is  armed  with  a ballot;  the  bartender  is  armed 
with  a ballot;  the  drunkard  — the  male  drunkard  — is  armed  with  a 
ballot.  The  home-maker,  the  child  rearer,  is  powerless  against  such 
a foe,  without  the  ballot  which  determines  political  conditions  in  this 
country ; and  it  is  the  crime  of  our  day ! 

^ -4  -4  4! 

Every  luxury  enjoyed  by  the  rum-seller  and  his  family  comes  out 
of  those  who  patronize  his  bar ; hence,  while  he  takes  his  comfort 
napping  in  his  easy  chair  or  riding  in  his  top-buggy  drawn  by  a docked 
horse  with  a gold-mounted  harness,  his  customers  make  music  with 
their  wood-saws  or  trudge  along  on  foot  with  bare  toes  sticking  out  of 
their  worn-out  boots  or  shoes. — H.  H.  Faxon. 


498 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


The  late  Dr.  Guthrie  of  Scotland  on  one  occasion  expressed  his 
opinion  of  whisky  in  these  words : “Whisky  is  good  in  its  place.  There 
is  nothing  in  this  world  like  whisky  for  preserving  a man  when  he  is 
dead,  but  it  is  one  of  the  worst  things  in  the  world  for  preserving  a 
man  when  he  is  living.  If  you  want  to  keep  a dead  man,  put  him  in 
whisky,  if  you  want  to  kill  a living  man,  put  whisky  in  him.” 

« 4:  4 * 

The  minotaur  of  Crete  had  to  have  a trireme  full  of  fair  maidens 
each  year ; but  the  minotaur  of  America  demands  a city  full  of  boys 
each  year.  Are  you  a father?  Have  you  given  your  share  to  keep  up 
the  supply  of  this  great  public  institution  that  is  helping  to  pay  your 
taxes  and  kindly  electing  public  officials  for  you?  Have  you  contributed 
a boy?  If  not,  some  other  family  had  to  give  more  than  its  share. 

4 « * * 

Did  you  know  how  much  may  be  gotten  out  of  one  bushel  of  corn? 
The  Free  Press  tells  as  follows : “The  distiller  gets  four  gallons  of 
whiskey,  which  retails  for  $16.80.  The  United  States  Government  gets 
$4.46.  The  farmer  gets  fifteen  cents.  The  railroad  company  gets  one 
dollar.  The  manufacturer  gets  $4.  The  consumer  gets  drunk.  The 
wife  gets  hungry.  The  children  get  rags.  The  devil  rejoices.”  Is  that 
what  God  made  the  corn  for? 

4!  * * * 

The  camp  of  Israel  where  “much  people  died”  from  fiery  serpents, 
is  but  too  faithfully  repeated  in  every  city  and  village  in  America  and 
England.  There  are  few  families  in  either  land  which  have  not  some 
victims  of  the  liquor  traffic  more  or  less  nearly  related  to  them,  and  it 
would  be  little  exaggeration  to  say  of  this  curse  of  our  countries,  “There 
was  not  a house  where  there  was  not  one  dead.”  Surely  common  sense 
says,  “Do  not  ‘play  on  the  cockatrice’  den.’  ” 

4^*4! 

An  Iowa  paper  says  that  one  of  the  justices  of  the  peace  for  Des 
Moines  was  recently  approached  by  a young  man  who  showed  unmis- 
takable evidence  of  dissipation,  with  the  following  pathetic  request: 
“Please,  Mr.  Court,  send  me  to  jail  for  ten  days.  I want  to  sober  up 
and  can’t  when  the  saloons  constantly  tempt  me  to  drink.”  A warrant 
was  issued  and  served  at  once;  he  pleaded  guilty,  and  was  sent  to  jail 
as  the  only  refuge  from  the  mulct  law  saloon. 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


499 


The  wisest  and  strongest  man  that  ever  lived  is  as  powerless  to 
prevent  alcohol  from  disintegrating  the  tissues  of  his  brain  as  the  weak- 
est and  most  stupid.  The  dry  hay  in  the  barn  may  as  well  try  to 
dictate  to  the  fire  that  gets  into  it,  as  you  try  to  control  the  ravages  of 
alcohol  in  the  gray  matter  in  your  head.  What  you  see,  and  what  you 
hear,  and  what  you  do,  when  you  put  this  mysterious  drug  into  your 
mouth,  is  a question  of  chemistry,  and  not  of  will. 

“The  church  preaches,  without  ceasing  and  without  reserve,  that 
the  saloon  ought  to  die  the  death  of  a pirate,  and  a murderer  taken  red- 
handed.  But  the  law  gives  it  license,  the  leaders  do  its  bidding,  candi- 
dates court  it,  statesmanship  ignores  it,  the  voting  church  sanctions  it, 
and  the  man  who  insists  upon  its  death  is  deemed  a terror  to  his  church 
and  a traitor  to  his  party,  or  else  a motley  fool.  The  case  is  made  out : 
The  saloon  is  a ‘wonderful  thing.’  ” — ^John  G.  Woolley. 

Mr.  Nelson,  the  most  distinguished  of  English  actuaries,  after  long 
and  careful  investigations  and  comparisons,  ascertained  by  actual  experi- 
ence the  following  astounding  facts:  Between  the  ages  of  fifteen  and 
twenty,  where  ten  total  abstainers  die,  eighteen  moderate  drinkers  die. 
Between  the  ages  of  twenty  and  thirty,  where  ten  total  abstainers  die,- 
thirty-one  moderate  drinkers  die.  Between  the  ages  of  thirty  and  forty, 
where  ten  total  abstainers  die,  forty  moderate  drinkers  die. 

The  saloon  must  have  boys  or  it  must  shut  up  shop.  Can’t  you 
furnish  it  one?  It  is  a great  factory,  and  unless  it  can  get  about 
2,000,000  from  each  generation  for  raw  material,  some  of  these  factories 
must  close  out,  and  its  operatives  must  be  thrown  on  a cold  world,  and 
public  revenue  will  dwindle.  ‘Wanted  — 2,000,000  boys,”  is  the  notice. 
One  family  out  of  every  five  must  contribute  a boy  to  keep  up  the 
supply.  Will  you  help?  Which  of  your  boys  will  it  be? 

4^  4!  4^ 

All  our  vices  deal  with  us  as  cats  do  with  mice,  — they  let  us  go 
a little  way,  and  then  fix  their  claws  and  drag  their  prey  back  again. 
Drink  is  one  of  the  greatest  oppressors  and  cruelest  Pharaohs  of  them 
all,  and  comes  back  after  the  fugitives,  and  too  often  hauls  them  back.' 
The  drunkard  has  a constantly  diminishing  pleasure  in  his  vice,  and  a 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


constantly  increasing  craving  for  it,  and  drinks  at  last  not  because  he 
wishes  to  drink,  but  because  he  cannot  do  without  it  or  bear  to  be  sober. 

^ ^ ^ 

If  the  saloon  insists  on  “personal  liberty”  we  say.  Let  the  saloon  go 
to  the  places  where  personal  liberty  is  known,  e.  g.  Central  Africa.  There 
personal  liberty  is  the  law  of  the  land.  To  plead  it  here  is  folly.  Civil- 
ized men  have  given  up  their  personal  liberty.  Personal  liberty  is  all 
well  enough  until  it  injures  others,  then  it  ought  to  cease.  But  when  a 
trade  is  so  driven  to  the  wall  as  to  resort  to  such  arguments  all  reason- 
able men  can  see  through  it  and  soon  the  public  will  say : “The  saloon 
must  go.” 

4!  ^ € 4 

I here  now  and  forever  say  that  no  prohibitionist  ever  by  word,  deed, 
letter  or  act  consents  or  agrees  to  the  sale  or  manufacture  of  rum  in 
any  form  except  for  medical  or  scientific  purposes.  No  prohibitionist 
ever  consents  to  the  license  of  a saloon,  neither  high  license  nor  low 
license,  because  we  all  know  that  the  Englishman’s  spelling  of  saloon 
is  correct.  He  told  a boy  to  spell  it  with  a hess,  a hay,  a hell,  two  hoes 
and  a hen.  So  all  saloons  have  a hell  in  them,  even  in  the  spelling. — 
C.  T.  Hogan  in  Houston  Chronicle. 

* ^ ^ * 

We  are  in  need  of  a new  Tom  Jefferson  who  shall  write  another 
Declaration  of  Independence  declaring  the  United  States  is  and  of  right 
ought  to  be  free  forever  from  all  sinful  complicity  with  the  iniquitous 
liquor  traffic.  If  King  George  HI.  oppressed  the  colonies  with  the  iron 
heel  of  tyranny.  King  Alcohol  is  more  severely  oppressing  the  nation 
today.  As  the  political  bands  that  united  us  with  the  former  were  cut 
by  the  keen  edge  of  the  revolutionary  sword,  the  cords  that  bind  us  to 
the  latter  should  be  broken  by  ballots. — Andrew  Johnson. 

A ^ * A 

“The  friends  of  the  saloonkeepers  denounce  their  opponents  for 
not  treating  the  saloon  business  like  any  other.  The  best  answer  to 
this  is  that  the  business  is  not  like  any  other  business,  and  that  the 
actions  of  the  saloonkeepers  themselves  conclusively  prove  this  to  be 
the  case.  It  tends  to  produce  criminality  in  the  population  at  large,  and 
law-breaking  among  the  saloonkeepers  themselves.  When  the  liquor 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


501 


men  are  allowed  to  do  as  they  wish,  they  are  sure  to  debauch,  not  only 
the  body  social,  but  the  body  politic  also.”— Theodore  Roosevelt. 

* 4 * 

As  we  look  in  the  madhouse,  says  one,  monster  Drink  cries : “One- 
third  of  these  are  mine !”  As  we  survey  the  inmates  of  our  prisons,  he 
cries,  “Two-thirds  of  these  are  mine !”  As  we  look  at  the  paupers  sus- 
tained by  public  charity,  he  cries,  “These  are  all  mine !”  And  when  we 
gaze  in  horror  at  the  one  hundred  thousand  corpses  with  which  his 
dungeon  is  annually  gorged,  he  shouts  exultingly : “Mine ! mine ! all 
these  are  mine !”  When  we  tremblingly  ask : “What  have  you  done 
with  their  souls  ?”  he  sneeringly  answers,  “You’ll  know  at  the  J udgment.” 

The  men  who  would  successfully  solve  the  labor  problem,  must  not 
leave  out  of  the  question  how  to  exterminate  the  saloons  of  the  land. 
If  all  the  trouble  connected  with  the  struggle  between  capital  and  labor 
could  be  properly  arranged  to-night,  it  would  get  wrong  to-morrow,  if 
the  present  saloon  system  is  allowed  to  still  go  on.  The  horrors  of  the 
drink  traffic  have  never  been  fully  portrayed.  No  pencil  is  black  enough 
to  pavnt  the  picture,  and  do  it  full  justice.  No  tongue  is  eloquent  enough 
to  tell  the  sad  story  of  all  its  dreadful  details.  The  use  of  alcoholic 
beverages  is  of  all  scourges  the  most  wide  and  withering. 

4 * 

A Quaker  was  once  advising  a drunkard  to  leave  off  his  habit  of 
drinking  intoxicating  liquors.  “Can  you  tell  me  how  to  do  it?”  said 
the  slave  of  the  appetite.  “Yes!”  answered  the  Quaker,  “it  is  just  as 
easy  as  to  open  thy  hand,  friend.”  “Convince  me  of  that,  and  I will 
promise  you  to  do  as  you  tell  me,”  replied  the  drunkard.  “Well,  my 
friend,  when  thou  6ndest  any  vessel  of  intoxicating  liquor  in  thy  hand, 
open  the  hand  that  contains  it  before  reaching  thy  mouth,  and  thou  wilt 
never  be  drunk  again.”  We  are  told  that  the  toper  was  so  well  pleased 
with  this  plain  advice  that  he  followed  it  and  became  a sober  man. 

4^  ^ 4k  ^ 

That  was  a thrilling  moment,  when  at  a political  meeting  in  Iowa, 
after  a man  had  been  vaunting  the  glories  to  be  gained  in  the  state  by 
supporting  the  party  that  calls  for  “a  saloon  on  every  hill-top,”  the 
strains  of  “Home,  Sweet  Home”  stole  into  the  arena  of  strife,  and 
swelled  out  grandly  in  the  cho.-'us,  “There’s  No  Place  Like  Home.” 


502 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


Strong  men  buried  their  faces  in  their  hands,  weeping  like  children,  and 
the  arguments  of  Lucifer  himself  would  have  been  powerless  to  counter- 
act the  sentiment  called  up  from  its  hiding  places  in  brave  men’s  hearts. 
“The  home  against  the  saloon”  is  a very  unequal  contest,  if  only  the 
home  gets  fairly  into  the  field. 

THE  DRUNKARD’S  PRAYER. 

(The  Lord’s  Prayer  Transposed.) 

Our  master  which  art  in  hell,  cursed  be  thy  name. 

Thy  kingdom  come,  thy  will  be  done  in  earth  as  it  is  in  hell. 

Rob  us  this  day  of  our  daily  bread. 

And  help  us  to  make  debts,  and  to  jump  all  our  debtors. 

And  lead  us  into  evil  temptations. 

Deliver  us  from  righteousness  : 

For  thine  is  the  kingdom  of  darkness  both  now  and  forever.  Amen. 
— N.  B.  Herrell. 

FACE  WAS  FAMILIAR. 

Judge — Have  you  been  arrested  before? 

Prisoner — No,  sir. 

Judge — Have  you  been  in  this  court  before? 

Prisoner — No,  sir. 

Judge — Are  you  certain? 

Prisoner — I am,  sir. 

Judge — Your  face  looks  decidedly  familiar.  Where  have  I seen  it 
before? 

Prisoner — I am  the  bartender  in  the  saloon  across  the  way,  sir. — 
Selected. 

STRANGE,  ISN’T  IT? 

It  may  seem  strange,  but  it  is  nevertheless  true,  that  alcohol, 
regularly  applied  to  the  thrifty  farmer’s  stomach,  will  remove  the  boards 
from  the  fence,  let  the  cattle  into  his  crops,  kill  his  fruit  trees,  mortgage 
his  farm  and  sow  his  field  with  wild  oats  and  thistles.  It  will  take  the 
paint  off  his  buildings,  break  the  glass  out  of  the  windows  and  fill  them 
with  rags.  It  will  take  the  gloss  from  his  clothes  and  the  polish  from  his 
manner,  subdue  his  reason,  arouse  his  passions,  bring  sorrow  and  disgrace 
upon  his  family  and  topple  him  into  a drunkard’s  grave. — Selected. 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


503 


THE  DEVIL’S  INVITATION  TO  THE  DRUNKARD. 

Come  unto  me  all  ye  who  are  clean  and  respectful  and'  that  have 
plenty  of  money  and  a nice  home,  and  I will  give  you  in  exchange  for  it 
a blasted  life,  a red  nose,  bleared  eyes,  a wrecked  body,  a cursed  soul. 
I will  break  the  heart  of  your  wife  and  send  your  children  to  the  poor^ 
house,  or  orphanage,  or  on  the  street  to  follow  your-  steps.  Take  my 
yoke  upon  you  and  learn  of  me,  for  my  yoke  is  galling,  heavy,  and-  hard 
to  bear.  You  can  pretend  to  drown  all  your  trouble  in  my  flowing  river 
of  liquors,  but  when  you  come  to  yourself,  all  of  them  will  be  on  top 
as  dead  weights  to  drag  you  deeper. 

To  those  who  have  left  the  devil’s  ranks,  he  would  say:  Return 
unto  me  and  I will  return  and  enter  your  heart  and  I will  make  you 
harder  in  sin  than  you  ever  were  in  all  your  life. — A Voice  from  Canaan. 

KING  ALCOHOL. 

(23rd  Psalm  Contrasted.) 

King  Alcohol  is  my  shepherd,  I shall  always  want. 

He  maketh  me  to  lie  down  in  the  gutters ; he  leadeth  me  beside 
troubled  waters. 

He  destroyeth  my  soul ; he  leadeth  me  into  the  paths  of  wickednes-s 
for  his  effect’s  sake. 

Yea,  though  I walk  through  the  valley  of  poverty  and  have  the 
delirium  tremens,  I will  cling  to  evil;  for  thou  art  with  me;  thy  bite 
and  thy  sting  they  torment  me. 

Thou  preparest  an  empty  table  before  me  in  the  presence  of  my 
family.  Thou  anointest  my  head  with  hellishness,  my  cup  of  wratk 
runneth  over. 

Surely  destruction  and  misery  shall  follow  me  all  the  days  of  my 
life ; and  I will  dwell  in  the  house  of  the  devil  forever,  except  I repent. — 
N.  B.  Herrell. 

HENRY  GRADY  ON  RUM. 

To-night  it  enters  a humble  home  to  strike  the  roses  from  a Yvmman’s 
cheek,  and  to-morrow  it  challenges  this  republic  in  the  halls  of  Congress. 

To-day  it  strikes  a crust  from  the  lips  of  a starving  child,  and  to- 
morrow levies  tribute  from  the  government  itself. 


504 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


There  is  no  cottage  humble  enough  to  escape  it,  no  palace  strong 
enough  to  shut  it  out. 

It  defies  the  law  when  it  cannot  coerce  suffrage. 

It  is  flexible  to  cajole,  but  merciless  in  victory. 

It  is  the  mortal  enemy  of  peace  and  order,  the  despoiler  of  men  and 
terror  of  women,  the  cloud  that  shadows  the  face  of  children,  the  demon 
that  has  dug  more  graves  and  sent  more  souls  unshrived  to  judgment 
than  all  the  pestilences  that  have  wasted  life  since  God  sent  the  plagues 
to  Egypt,  and  all  the  wars  since  Joshua  stood  beyond  Jericho. 

It  comes  to  ruin,  and  it  shall  profit  mainly  by  the  ruin  of  your 
sons  and  mine. 

It  comes  to  mislead  human  souls  and  to  crush  human  hearts  under 
its  rumbling  wheels. 

It  comes  to  bring  gray-haired  mothers  down  in  shame  and  sorrow 
to  their  graves. 

It  comes  to  change  the  wife’s  love  into  despair  and  her  pride  into 
shame. 

It  comes  to  still  the  laughter  on  the  lips  of  little  children. 

It  comes  to  stifle  all  the  music  of  the  home  and  fill  it  with  silence  and 
desolation. 

It  comes  to  ruin  your  body  and  mind,  to  wreck  your  home,  and  it 
knows  it  must  measure  its  prosperity  by  the  swiftness  and  certainty  with 
which  it  wrecks  this  world. — Selected  by  Way  of  Faith. 


PART  IV 

POEMS 


4 

C Cl'S  . 

Il'Sli' 

O S S 

o »-  ® 

« 

Is  & 

:>  a 

MW 

CQ 

HELP  SHUT  OFF  THE  USELESS  SPOUT 

Wllpn  tTifi  Haloons  are  running  the  greatest  share  of  (he  workingman’s  wages  goes  into  the  snloon- 
keept'r’s  pockets. — When  that  useless  waste  is  shut  oit  his  family  and  liiinself  are  benefited. 


^HRIFTY,^  O master,  the  cash  drawer  bell 
Tinkles  the  tidings  that  all  is  well'; 

f That  your  cofier  is  filling  with  good  realm’s  cash, 

That  your  silver  greets  gold  with  a gleesome  clash. 

Sweeter  to  you  than  a seraph’s  song, 

Is  the  music  that  peals  from  your  cash  drawer  gong. 

But,  O while  ye. ring  for  the  gold  of  price, 

Gathered  by  sin  and  in  avarice, — 

Ring  for  the  things  no  gold  can  buy, 

The  wealth.beyond  traffic  and  usury. 

Ring  for  the  lives  of -good  men  lost, 
l^urnt  as  a wisp  in  a holocaust : 

Ring  for  the  life  that  was  due  the  world, 

Blasted  and  down  to  destruction  hurled. 

Ring  for  a father  once  strong  and  brave, 

Whose  son  HeS  wrapped  in  a drunkard’s  grave. 

Ring  for  the  mother  with  prayers  and  tears, 

Her  hair  grown  gray  with  the  grief  of  years. 

Ring  for  the  wife  with  her  sullied  name, 

A broken  heart  and  a living  shame. 

Ring  for  the  children  with  tainted  blood 
Coursing  their  veins  like  a poisoned  flood. 

Ring  for  the  home  with  its  hallowed  bliss, 

'Turned  to  remorse  and  to  bitterness. 

Ring  for  the  hope  that  for  years  has  lain 
Dead,  like  a friend  on  the  battle  plain. 

Ring  for  the  hope  with  its  warm,  dead  face, 

Its  arms  yet  clasped  in  a last  embrace. 

Ring  for  the  joy  that  might  have  been, 

Turned  to  a pain  and  a flauntii^  sin. 

Ring  for  the  peace  Christ  meant  should  be, 

A foretaste  sweet,  of  eternity. 

Rin£.for  the  holiness  life  has  missed, 

Sacred  and  sweet  as  the  eucharist. 

Ring,  O bell,  for  the  drunkard’s  death, 

And  the  curses  that  died  on  his  latest  breath. 

Ring,  0 bell,  for  the  drunkard  dead, 

Whose  life  was  wasted  and  blasphemed. 

Solemn,  my  master,  the  cash  drawer  bell, 

Tolls  on  the  air  a funeral  knell. 

Some  one  has  murdered  a man  to-day  1 

What  will  the  Judge  on  the  Great  Throne  say? 

Carved  on  the  stone  on  Sinai’s  hill 

Is  the  law  of  the  Prophet,  Thou  Shalt  Not  Killi 

Who  shall  plead  guilty  of  this  foul  crime, 

Before  God’s  bar  in  the  Judgment  time  ? 


Caurtesv  Iiom&  Herald  Co. 


-507- 


that's  allV 

AN  ANSWER  TO  THIS  POPULAR  AD’ 


BY  OLIVER  ALLSTORM 

All?  "Why,  no,  there’s  a 

great  deal  more: 

There’s  an  arm  that's 

weak  and  a head 

that’s  sore; 


There’s  a home  that’s 

filled  with  grief 

and  woe, 

And  a wife  that’s  felled 

with  a savage  blow. 

508 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


509 


All?  Why,  no,  there’s 

job  that’s  losii 
There’s  an  empty  purse  that 

can  meet  no  cost; 


There’s  an  empty  glass 

and  a fight  or  two, 
fndafine  to  pay 

for  an  eye  that’s  blue. 


There’s  a watch  to  pawn  and 

a chair  to  sell; 
There’s  money  to  borrow  and 

a thirst  to  quell; 


All?  Why,  no,  there’s 

a demon’s  curse; 
There  a child  to  kick 

and  a wound  to  nurse; 


510 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


There’s  a home  to  break 

and  a wife  to  scrub— 
^nd  the  song  of  her  life 

is  rub,  rub,  rub; 


There’s  a free  lunch  served 

in  a sample  room. 
And  some  chores  to  do 

with  a rag  or  broom; 


There’s  the  price  to  beg 

for  a burning  drink, 


And  a place  to  sleep 

where  drunkards  sink. 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


511 


All?  Why,  no,  there  is 

half  untold: 

There’s  a heart  grown  sick 

and  limbs  grown  cold; 


There’s  a manhood  gone  - 

and  a substitute 
That  is  half  a fiend 

and  half  a brute; 


There’s  a place  to  rob  and  a man  to  kill; 
There’s  a prison  cell  for  a man  to  fill: 


There’s  a speedy  trial,  and  a verdict  read. 
And  a wife  that  weeps  as  the  doom  is  said; 


512 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


And  as  for  your  whiskey, 

why,  “that’s  all.’ 


BUM’S  MANIAC. 


Confined  mid  crazy  people?  Why? 
Why  am  I thus,  the  maniac  cried, 

I am  not  mad;  knave,  stand  aside. 
I’ll  have  my  freedom  or  I’ll  die. 
It’s  not  for  cure  that  here  I’ve  come, 
I tell  you  all  I want  is  rum, 

I must  have  rum. 


Sane?  Yes,  and  have  been  all  the  while. 
Then  why  tormented  thus?  ’Tis  sad, 
Wfiy  chained  and  held  in  durance  vile? 
Then  men  who  brought  me  here  were 
mad. 

I will  not  stay  where  specters  come. 
Let  me  go  home,  I must  have  rum. 

I must  have  rum. 


’Tis  He!  ’Tis  He!  My  aged  sire. 

What  has  disturbed  thee  in  thy  grave? 
Why  bend  on  me  that  eye  of  fire? 

Why  torment  since  thou  canst  not 
save? 

Back  to  the  churchyard  whence  you’ve 
come, 

Return!  Return!  But  send  me  rum. 

Oh,  send  me  rum. 

Why  is  my  mother  musing  there. 

On  that  same  consecrated  spot 
Where  once  she  taught  me  words  of 
prayer? 

But  now  she  heeds,  she  hears  me  not 
Mute  in  her  winding  sheet  she  stands; 
Cold!  Cold!  I feel  her  icy  hands. 

Her  icy  hands. 


It  won’t  wash  out — that  crimson  stain — 
I’ve  scoured  those  spots  and  made 
them  white. 

Blood  reappears  again;  again; 

Soon  as  the  morning  brings  the  light 
When  from  my  sleepless  couch  I come 
To  see!  To  feel!  Oh  give  me  rum. 

I must  have  rum. 

’Twas  there  I heard  his  piteous  wail 
And  saw  his  last  imploring  look. 

But  steeled  my  heart  and  bade  him  die. 
And  from  him  golden  treasure  took. 
Accursed  treasure,  stinted  sum. 

Reward  of  guilt:  Give,  give  me  rum. 
Oh!  give  me  rum. 

Hark!  still  I hear  that  piteous  wail. 
Before  my  eyes  his  specter  stands. 
And  when  it  frowns  on  me  I quail. 

Oh!  I would  fly  to  other  lands. 

But  that  pursuing  there  ’twould  come. 
There’s  no  escape.  Oh!  give  me  rum. 
Oh!  give  me  rum. 

Guard!  Guard!  those  windows,  bar  that 
door. 

Yonder  I armed  bandits  see. 

They’ve  robbed  my  house  of  all  its  store 
And  now  return  to  murder  me 
They’re  breaking  in.  Don’t  let  them 
come. 

Drive,  drive  them  hence,  but  give  me 
rum. 

Oh!  give  me  rum. 

See  how  that  rug  those  reptiles  soil. 
They’re  crawling  o’er  me  in  my  bed. 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


513 


I feel  their  clammy,  snakey  coil 
On  every  limb,  around  my  head. 

With  forked  tongue  I see  them  play — 
I hear  them  hiss-s-:  Tear  them  away. 
Tear  them  away. 

4.  fiend!  A fiend!  with  many  a dart, 
Glares  on  me  with  his  bloodshot  eye 
And  aims  his  missiles  at  my  heart. 

Oh!  whither,  whither  shall  I fly? 

Fly?  No!  It  is  no  time  for  flight. 

Fiend,  I know  thy  purpose  well. 
Avaunt!  avaunt!  thou  hated  sprite, 

And  hie  thee  to  thy  native  hell. 

He’s  gone,  he’s  gone,  and  I am  free. 

He’s  gone,  the  faithless  braggart  liar. 
He  said  he’d  come  to  summon  me. 

See  there  again,  my  bed’s  on  fire. 
Fire!  Water!  Help!  Oh  haste!  I die! 

The  flhmes  are  kindling  round  my 
head. 

The  smoke!  I’m  strangling!  cannot  fly. 
O!  snatch  me  from  this  burning  bed! 

There,  there  again;  that  demon’s  there. 
Crouching  to  make  a fresh  attack. 

See  how  his  flaming  eyeballs  glare. 
Thou  fiend  of  fiends,  what’s  brought 
thee  back? 

Back  in  thy  car;  for  whom,  for  where? 

He  smiles,  he  beckons  me  to  come. 
What  are  those  words  thou’st  written 
there? 

“In  hell  they  never  want  for  rum.” 

Not  want  for  rum?  read  that  again. 

I feel  the  spell.  Haste,  drive  me  down. 
Where  rum  is  free,  where  revelers  reign 
And  I can  wear  the  drunkard’s  crown. 

Accept  thy  proffer,  fiend?  I will. 

And  to  thy  drunken  banquet  come. 

Fill  the  great  cauldron  from  thy  still 
With  boiling,  burning,  fiery  rum. 

There  will  I quench  this  horrid  thirst. 
With  boon  companions  drink  and 
dwell. 

Nor  plead  for  rum  as  here  I must. 
There’s  liberty  to  drink  in  hell. 

Thus  raved  that  maniac  rum  had  mada 
Then  starting  from  his  lowly  bed. 

On!  on!  Ye  demons,  on!  he  said. 

Then  silent  sunk.  His  soul  had  fled. 
Scoffer,  beware,  he  in  that  shroud. 

Was  once  a temperate  drinker  proud. 

— Selected. 


THE  DBHNKAEB’S  DATIGHTEB. 


Go  feel  what  I have  felt. 

Go  bear  what  I have  borne; 

Sink  ’neath  the  blow  a father  dealt. 

And  the  cold,  proud  world’s  scorn; 
Thus  struggle  on  from  year  to  year. 
Thy  sole  relief — the  scalding  tear. 


Go  weep  as  I have  wept. 

O’er  a loved  father’s  fall; 

See  every  cherished  promise  swept, 


Youth’s  sweetness  turned  to  gall; 
Hope’s  faded  flowers  strewed  all  the  way 
That  led  me  up  to  woman’s  day. 

Go  kneel  as  I have  knelt; 

Implore,  beseech  and  pray. 

Strive  the  besotted  heart  to  melt. 

The  downward  course  to  stay; 

Be  cast  with  bitter  curse  aside — 

Thy  prayers  burlesqued;  thy  tears 
defied. 

Go  stand  as  I have  stood. 

And  see  the  strong  man  bow. 

With  gnashing  teeth,  lips  bathed  in 
blood. 

And  cold  and  livid  brow; 

Go  catch  his  wandering  glance,  and  see 
There  mirrored  his  soul’s  misery. 

Go  hear  what  I have  heard — 

The  sobs  of  sad  despair. 

As  memory’s  feeling  fount  hath  stirred. 
And  its  revealings  there 
Have  told  him  what  he  might  have  been. 
Had  he  the  drunkard’s  fate  foreseen. 

Go  to  my  mother’s  side. 

And  her  crushed  spirit  cheer; 

Thine  own  deep  anguish  hide. 

Wipe  from  her  cheek  the  tear; 

Mark  her  dimmed  eye,  her  furrowed 
brow, 

The  gray  that  streaks  her  dark  hair 
now; 

Her  toilworn  frame,  her  trembling  limb. 
And  trace  the  ruin  back  to  him 
Whose  plighted  faith,in  early  youth, 
Promised  eternal  love  and  truth; 

But  who,  foresworn,  hath  yielded  up 
That  promise  to  the  deadly  cup. 

And  led  her  down  from  love  and  light. 
From  all  that  made  her  pathway  bright. 
And  chained  her  there,  ’mid  want  and 
strife. 

That  lowly  thing — a drunkard’s  wife! 
And  stamped  on  childhood’s  brow  so 
mild. 

That  withering  blight — a drunkard’s 
child! 

Go  hear,  and  see,  and  feel,  and  know. 
All  that  my  soul  hath  felt  and  known. 
Then  look  upon  the  wine-cup  glow; 

See  if  its  brightness  can  atone; 

Think  if  its  flavor  you  will  try. 

If  all  proclaimed,  “ ’Tis  drink  and  die!” 

Tell  me  I hate  the  bowl; 

Hate  is  a feeble  word; 

I loathe,  abhor — my  very  soul 
With  strong  disgust  is  stirred. 

When  e’er  I see,  or  hear,  or  tell. 

Of  the  dark  beverage  of  hell. 

— Selected. 


“IP.” 


If  you  want  a red  nose  and  dim  bleary 
eyes; 

If  you  wish  to  be  one  whom  all  men 
despise; 


514  STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


If  you  wish  to  be  ragged  and  weary  and 
sad: 

If  you  wish,  in  a word,  to  go  to  the 
bad; 

Then  drink! 

If  you  wish  that  your  life  a failure  may 
be; 

If  you  wish  to  be  penniless — out  at  the 
knee; 

If  you  wish  to  be  homeless,  broken,  for- 
lorn; 

If  you  wish  to  see  pointed  the  finger  of 
scorn; 

Then  drink! 

If  you  wish  that  your  manhood  be  shorn 
of  its  strength; 

That  your  days  may  be  shortened  to 
one-half  their  length; 

If  you  like  the  gay  music  of  curse  or  of 
wail; 

If  you  long  for  the  shelter  of  poorhouse 
or  jail; 

Then  drink! 

If  your  tastes  don’t  agree  with  the  “if” 
as  above; 

If  you’d  rather  have  life  full  of  bright- 
ness and  love; 

If  you  care  not  to  venture  nor  find  out 
too  soon 

That  the  gateway  of  hell  lies  through 
the  saloon! 

Then  don’t  drink! 

— Selected. 


BIiOOD-MOlirB'S'. 


At  ease,  in  his  glory,  the  rumseller  ate. 

Nor  cared  for  the  cost  of  his  viands  and 
plate. 

His  wife  shone  in  silks,  and  her  jewels 
were  bright. 

He  thought  not,  nor  cared  for,  the  ter- 
rible blight 

To  his  customer’s  home,  where  poverty 
fed 

On  crusts  in  the  gloom  and  no  warm, 
downy  bed 

Was  left  for  the  weary  ones  resting  on 
straw; 

His  heart  was  too  cold  for  sweet  Pity  to 
thaw. 

The  angel  looked  sadly  about  him  and 
said: 

“This  wealth  ia  all  blood-money,  bloody 
and  red.” 

A delicate  cup  of  old  Java’s  delight 

Stood  ’mid  the  china  so  pearly  and 
bright; 

He  sips  at  his  coffee,  delicious  with 
cream. 

And  Cuba’s  best  sugar;  how  fragrant 
the  steam! 

The  steak  rare  and  tender  gives  flavor 
as  sweet 

As  Solomon  tasted  in  glory  complete. 

But  still  spoke  the  angel  its  warning 
and  said: 


‘ ’Tis  all  bought  with  blood-monby, 
bloody  and  red!” 


The  pie  was  mince,  rich  with  sweets 
from  the  isles. 

The  spices  Malacca  had  nourished  with 
smiles. 

The  hot  rolls  were  tender,  the  butter 
like  gold; 

But  still  spoke  the  angel  in  whispers 
bold: 

“The  table  is  cursed,  ah,  most  bitterly 
cursed! 

’Tis  bought  with  the  serpent  that  mur- 
ders with  thirst.” 

Stern  was  his  look  as  with  anguish  he 
said: 

“ ’Tis  all  bought  with  bleod-money, 
bloody  and  red!” 


The  rumseller  heard  not,  but  leaned  in 
his  chair. 

And  thought  of  his  customers  jolly  and 
fair; 

Whose  nerves  were  still  firm,  who  could 
pour  down  the  wine. 

And  praise  his  strong  brandy;  their 
wealth  was  a mine; 

And  from  it  he  hoped  his  great  coffers 
to  fill. 

His  labor  was  easy!  the  worm  of  the 
still 

Worked  ceaseless  for  him,  while  God’s 
messenger  said: 

“ ’Tis  blood-money,  blood-money,  fear- 
fully red!” 


He  said  in  his  heart,  like  the  rich  men 
of  old, 

“Take  ease,  and  be  merry  for  silver  and 
gold.” 

He  thought  when  his  coffers  with  treas- 
ures were  deep. 

His  joy  would  be  greater,  and  sweeter 
his  sleep. 

And  little  he  dreamed  of  the  horror  to 
come. 

When  he  should  be  called  from  his 
riches  and  rum! 

But  yet  the  strong  angel  cried  louder, 
and  said: 

“The  wealth  is  but  blood-money,  bloody 
and  red!” 

Go  through  the  city  and  mark  where  ap- 
pears 

The  blood-money  reeking  and  briny  with 
tears. 

O,  what  a sacrifice!  for  it  were  given 

Both  body  and  soul,  and  the  sweet  hope 
of  Heaven, 

There’s  a cry!  there’s  a cry  from  the 
dark  pit  of  woe! 

O,  my  soul,  there’s  a hell  where  the 
drunkard  must  go. 

And  if  he  be  sent  there  ’mid  terrors 
untold. 

Then  what  is  his  doom  who  destroyed 
him  for  gold? 


— Selected. 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


515 


Tax:  SHADOW. 


Drink,  drink,  drink. 

It  is  only  a sip  at  first. 

And  drink,  drink,  drink, 

With  never  a dream  of  the  worst; 

But  a ghastly  shadow  stands 

With  a mocking  laugh  and  a taunt, 
And  whispers  low  of  a life  of  woe, 

And  misery,  grief  and  want. 

Drink,  drink,  drink. 

In  a parlor  rich  and  grand. 

And  drink,  drink,  drink. 

The  toast  from  the  jeweled  hand; 

But  drunkard  you  never  have  seen 
And  drunkard  you  never  will  see 
Who  read  his  doom  in  the  gilded  room 
Or  the  smile  of  a bride  to  be. 

Drink,  drink,  drink. 

While  the  youthful  fires  burn  bright, 
And  drink,  drink,  drink, 

Secure  in  your  boasted  might. 

In  the  garden  of  early  years 

Life’s  habits  grow  deep  and  fast. 

And  the  drinking  seng  of  the  merry 
throng 

May  end  in  a dirge  at  last. 

Drink,  drink,  drink. 

The  fires  burn  lower  now. 

But  drink,  drink,  drink. 

It  must  come,  no  matter  how! 

No  longer  the  gilded  room. 

No  longer  the  bride  to  be. 

But  a mother  wild  with  a starving  child 
In  a garret  of  poverty. 

Drink,  drink,  drink. 

The  Shadow  has  claimed  its  prize. 

And  drink,  drink,  drink. 

Stands  forth  in  its  proper  guise. 

Yes!  Prophet  of  Death,  stand  forth! 

Thou  Vulture  of  Night,  be  known! 

If  but  to  be  raised  in  righteous  wrath. 
High  on  a blood-stained  throne! 

There  with  Chaos  and  Ruin 

Exult  o’er  the  anguish  you  spread; 
Endless  distress  for  the  living. 

Eternal  despair  for  the  dead! 
Encompass  the  fatal  beginning 
With  every  alluring  delight. 

And  smile  when  the  bark  drifts  out  in 
the  dark. 

To  sink  in  the  ocean  of  night. 

— Harvey  M.  Rarr. 


THE  DBUHKABD’S  WIFE. 


Weary  and  sad  I am  sitting  alone 
With  a dying  babe  and  a cold  hearth- 
stone; 

And  list  to  the  sound  of  the  drifting 
snow; 

Oh,  how  unlike  to  long  ago! 

Those  volden  dreams  have  passed  away. 
That  filled  iny  heart  on  its  marriage  day. 
And  the  trembling  tear  drops  silent  flow 
Are  the  tribute  pearls  of  long  ago. 


Oh!  the  hidden  power  of  the  sparkling 
wine 

Can  banish  love  from  its  holiest  shrine. 
And  place  in  its  stead  a wreath  of  woe 
In  the  faded  hopes  of  long  ago. 

The  crowning  joy  of  a woman’s  life 
Is  breathed  in  the  blissful  name  of  wife. 
And  the  deepst  pangs  her  heart  can  know 
Is  the  blighted  love  of  long  ago. 

— Selected. 


UHDEB  THE  DZOEHSE  X.AW. 


SCENE  I. 

Plays  a boy  whose  very  loveliness 
Brim  full  of  mirth  and  glee. 

Before  me  like  a vision  bright. 

Gladdens  the  heart  to  see. 

His  face  is  fair,  his  eyes  are  blue. 

His  cheeks  are  rosy  red; 

Long  shining  curls  of  golden  hue. 

Are  clustering  round  his  head. 

A father’s  pride,  a mother’s  joy. 

From  the  moment  of  his  birth, 

A gentle,  loving,  noble  boy — 

Too  innocent  for  earth. 

SCENE  II. 

The  scene  is  changed;  a mother  sad. 

Her  lonely  vigil  keeps. 

Watches  and  waits  with  aching  heart, 
While  all  the  household  sleeps. 

Where  is  my  darling  boy  to-night? 

What  keeps  him  out  so  late? 

Weeping,  she  looks  and  listens. 

When!  Hark!  Yes,  that’s  the  gate. 

And  voices,  too,  her  mother  heart 
Is  sinking  now  with  fear. 

Rising,  she  opens  wide  the  door. 

Oh!  bring  him  quickly  here. 

Struck  by  a comrade  whom  he  loved. 
Killed  in  a drunken  row. 

And  the  mother’s  reason  leaves  its  throne 
As  the  color  leaves  her  brow. 

SCENE  III. 

In  prison  cell,  a handsome  youth 
With  grief  is  stricken  low. 

For  he,  while  maddened  by  the  drink. 
Had  struck  the  cruel  blow. 

Killed  him!  say  you?  my  dearest  friend, 
And  drove  his  mother  wild; 

And  my  poor  mother;  what  of  her? 

I am  her  only  child. 

Licensed  to  sell!  Incensed  to  sell! 

We  read  and  thought  we’d  go 
In  there  and  have  a jolly  time; 

No  fear  of  law,  you  know. 

Licensed  to  sell!  Licensed  to  sell! 

To  blight,  to  blast,  to  kill. 

To  craze  the  brnin  and  cause  a crime. 
The  prison  cells  to  fill. 


516 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


He  sells,  and  all  the  better  lives; 

I drink,  and  must  I die! 

Is  this,  my  father,  what  you  did. 
Voting  for  License  High? 

Take  care,  ye  men  who  make  the  laws, 
Your  boys  may  be  like  me. 

You  license  men  to’  sell  the  curse, 

"Who  shall  its  victims  be? 

— E.  B.  Race. 


ASKED  AND  ANSWEKED. 


Citizens,  neighbors,  you  and  I, 

What  are  we  going  to  do  if  this  town 
goes  dry? 

We  may  get  along  without  our  drink. 

But  who  will  it  hurt  most,  do  you  think? 

What  are  we  going  to  do  if  the  town 
goes  dark. 

With  not  enough  money  for  the  electric 
spark. 

Not  enough  money  for  water  plugs. 

Our  town  at  the  mercy  of  fire  and  thugs? 

Who’s  going  to  pay  for  the  needed 
police? 

Who's  going  to  furnish  the  needed 
grease 

To  oil  the  wheels  of  the  city  machine. 

To  keep  the  town  healthy,  the  streets  to 
clean? 

What  will  we  do?  Will  we  issue  bonds 

To  pay  our  officers  and  drain  our  ponds? 

What  will  we  do  in  case  of  fire. 

With  our  firemen  all  fired  and  none  to 
hire  ? 


When  insurance  goes  up  and  property 
goes  down. 

With  never  a job  for  a man  in  town. 

And  the  market  is  off  for  the  farmer’s 
rye 

And  his  corn  and  barley,  when  the  town 
goes  dry. 

I tell  you,  my  friends,  it’s  a serious 
thing 

That  some  of  these  fanatics  to  this  town 
would  bring. 

The  only  thing  left  when  they  stop  the 
cup 

Is  to  cut  our  suspenders  and  go  straight 
up. 

— Author  unknown. 


What  will  we  do  if  the  town  goes  dry? 

We  will  save  our  money,  provisions  to 
buy; 

Though  butter  and  eggs  be  ever  so  high. 

We’ll  have  plenty  for  all  if  the  town 
gKses  dry. 

Who  will  it  hurt  the  most,  do  you  think? 

The  man  who’s  determined  to  have  his 
strong  drink. 

If  the  laws  are  enforced  and  carried  out 
right. 


It  will  hurt  the  man  most  who  goes  in 
for  a fight. 

We’ll  have  plenty  of  money  for  boots 
and  shoes. 

For  light  or  dark  clothing,  whichever 
you  choose. 

Don’t  worry  about  money  to  pay  for  the 
light. 

If  the  town  will  go'  dry  and  learn  to  do 
right. 

Don’t  be  afraid  of  tbe  town  going  dark. 

Or  lacking  the  funds  to  pay  for  the 
spark. 

Cut  out  the  bottle,  the  glass  and  the 
jug. 

You’ll  have  plenty  of  money  to  pay  for 
the  plugs. 

And  our  town  can  rest,  not  fearing  the 
thugs. 

The  town  will  not  need  so  many  police. 

Hence  you’ll  not  need  so  much  of  the 
grease. 

The  walks  will  keep  clean  by  night  and 
by  day. 

And  all  the  vile  odors  be  taken  away. 

What  will  we  do?  Yes,  we’ll  issue  bonds. 

And  build  a fine  schoolhouse  with  foun- 
tains and  ponds. 

What  will  we  do  if  fire  should  come? 

We’ll  fight  it  with  firemen  not  fired  up 
with  rum. 

When  insurance  goes  up  and  property 
down. 

You  may  bet  your  old  boots  you  are  in 
a wet  town. 

For  the  risk  is  greater  and  the  cost  runs 
higher 

In  a town  with  its  people  filled  with  hell 
fire. 

If  the  market  goes  off,  on  corn,  barley, 
and  rye. 

As  the  old  whiskey  wets  raise  a hue  and 
a cry. 

I’ll  tell  you,  good  farmer,  how  to  do 
well. 

By  raising  more  hogs  and  not  so  much 
hell. 

I’ll  tell  you,  my  friends,  it’s  a serious 
thing 

To  clean  up  a town  of  pollution  and  sin. 

If  the  town  should  go  dry,  may  God 
speed  the  day. 

Don’t  cut  your  suspenders,  for  you  won’t 
go  that  way. 

And  now,  my  friends,  if  I have  answered 
you  right. 

And  shown  you  a way  for  your  water 
and  light. 

With  prosperity  in  sight  and  victory 
nigh. 

Just  trust  in  the  Lord  and  vote  your 
town  dry. 

— .G.  C.  Brown. 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


517 


A VOICE  FBOM  THE  FOOEHOUSE. 


“My  dear  friends,”  said  the  doctor,  “I 
favor 

License  for  selling  rum. 

These  fanatics  tell  us  with  horror 
Of  the  mischief  liquor  has  done; 

I say  as  a man  and  physician, 

The  system’s  requirements  are  such 
That  unless  we,  at  times,  assist  nature. 
The  body  and  mind  suffer  much. 

’Tis  a blessing  when  worn  out  and 
weary — 

A moderate  drink  now  and  then.” 

From  the  minister  by  the  pulpit 
Qame  an  audible  murmer,  “Amen!” 

“ ’Tis  true  that  many  have  fallen. 

Become  filthy  drunkards,  and  worse. 
Harmed  others.  No,  I don’t  uphold  them; 

They  made  their  blessing  a curse. 
Must  I be  denied  for  their  sinning? 

Must  the  weak  ones  govern  the  race? 
Why,  every  good  thing  God  has  given. 

Is  only  a curse  out  of  place. 

’Tis  only  excess  that  destroys  us; 

A little  is  good  now  and  then.” 

From  the  white-haired,  pious  old  deacon 
Came  a fervent,  loud-spoken  “Amen!” 

Then,  up  from  a seat  in  the  corner. 
From  the  midst  of  the  murmuring 
throng. 

From  among  the  people  there  gathered 
To  crush  out  and  trample  out  wrong, 
’Rose  a woman,  her  thin  hands  uplifted. 
While  out  from  her  frost-covered  hair 
Gazed  a face  of  such  agonized  white- 
ness, 

A face  of  such  utter  despair. 

The  vast  throng  grew  hushed  in  a 
moment. 

Grew  silent  with  terrof  and  dread: 
They  gazed  on  the  face  of  the  woman 
As  we  gaze  on  the  face  of  the  dead. 

Then  the  hush  and  the  silence  was 
broken, 

A voice  so  shrill  and  so  clear 
Bang  out  through  the  room:  “Look 
upon  me. 

You  wonder  what  chance  brought  me 
here; 

You  know  me  and  now  you  shall  hear 
me, 

I speak  to  you,  lovers  of  wine. 

For  once  I was  young,  rich  and  happy. 
Home,  husband  and  children  were 
mine. 

“Where  are  they?  I ask  you  where  are 
they? 

False  teacher  of  God’s  holy  word! 
My  husband — my  kind,  loving  husband — 
Whom  my  prayers  and  tears  might 
have  stirred. 

Remembered  your  teachings,  turned 
from  me — 

Me  kneeling  and  pleading  with  him. 
’Twas  a God-given  blessing,  you  told 
him. 

And  only  excess  was  a sin. 


And  where  are  my  boys?  God  forgive 
you! 

They  heeded  your  counsels — not  mine; 
You,  doctor,  beloved  and  respected, 

You  could  see  no  danger  in  wine 
For  my  boys  so  strong  and  so  manly. 
How  could  I hope  ever  to  win 
When  their  doctor  said  ’twas  a blessing. 
And  only  excess  was  a sin? 

“My  husband,  so  noble  and  loving. 

My  boys,  so  proud  and  so  brave. 

They  lie  side  by  side  in  the  churchyard. 
Each  filling  a drunkard’s  grave. 

I have  come  from  the  poorhouse  to  tell 
you 

My  story,  and  now  it  is  done. 

Go  on,  if  you  will,  in  your  madness. 
And  license  the  selling  of  rum. 

“Before  the  great  judgment  eternal. 
When  the  last  dread  moment  has 
come. 

They’ll  stand  there  to  witness  against 
you. 

My  dear  ones,  the  victims  of  rum. 
When  the  shadows  of  earth  are  lifted. 
And  life’s  secret  thoughts  are  laid 
bare. 

By  the  throne  of  the  Great  Eternal, 

I shall  witness  against  you  there.” 

— Selected. 


TEE  SIGH  BOABD. 


I will  paint  you  a sign,  rumseller. 

And  hang  it  above  your  door, 

A truer  and  better  sign  board 
Than  you  have  had  before; 

I will  paint  with  the  skill  of  a master. 
And  many  shall  pause  to  see 
This  wonderful  piece  of  painting. 

So  like  the  reality. 

I will  paint  yourself,  rumseller. 

As  you  wait  for  that  fair  young  boy. 
Just  in  the  morn  of  manhood, 

A mother’s  pride  and  joy; 

He  has  no  thought  of  stopping. 

But  you  greet  him  with  a smile, 

And  you  seem  so  blithe  and  friendly. 
That  he  pauses  to  chat  a while. 

I will  paint  you  again,  rumseller, 

I will  paint  you  as  you  stand. 

With  a foaming  glass  of  liquor 
Held  out  in  either  hand; 

He  wavers,  but  you  urge  him, 

“Drink!  pledge  me  just  this  one!” 
And  he  lifts  the  glass  and  drains  it. 
And  the  fatal  work  is  done. 

And  I next  will  paint  a drunkard. 

Only  a year  has  flown. 

But  into  this  loathsome  creature 
T^he  fair  young  boy  has  grown; 

The  work  was  quick  and  rapid; 

I will  paint  him  as  he  lies 
In  a torpid,  drunken  slumber. 

Under  the  wintry  skies. 


518 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


I will  paint  the  form  of  a mother. 

As  she  kneels  at  her  darling’s  side — 

Her  beautiful  boy  who  was  dearer 
Than  all  the  world  beside; 

I will  paint  the  shape  of  a cofHn 
Labelled  with  one  word — “lost!” 

I will  paint  all  this,  rumseller, 

I will  paint  it  free  of  cost. 

The  sin  and  the  shame  and  sorrow. 

The  crime  and  want  and  woe. 

That  are  born  there  in  your  rumshop. 

No  hand  can  paint  you  know; 

But  I’ll  paint  you  a sign,  rumseller. 
And  many  may  pause  to  view 

This  wonderful,  swinging  sign  board. 

So  terribly,  fearfully  true. 

— Church  Union. 


THE  FABT  THET  DO  HOT  TEIiE. 


When  the  Fourth  of  July  comes  round 
each  year 

An  army  of  orators  take  the  stand 
And  tell  with  a show  of  words  sublime. 
The  glories  that  crown  our  native  land. 

They  speak  in  a tone  to  bring  forth  tears 
Of  the  good  red  blood  the  patriots 
spilled; 

And  with  quavering  voice  they  tell  of 
the  host 

Who  in  later  wars  were  maimed  and 
killed. 

They  dwell  on  the  Constitutional  clause 
That  says  nobody  should  be  denied 
The  right  to  happiness,  liberty,  life; 
They  point  with  a pardonable  pride 
To  the  Stars  and  Stripes  whose  bright 
folds  wave 

O’er  the  land  where  justice  seems  to 
reign. 

The  land  of  the  free,  the  home  of  the 
brave. 

They  praise  with  enthusiastic  vim 
A fleet  that  unchallenged  floats  the  sea. 
And  brings  forth  the  cheers  of  the  mul- 
titude 

Recounting  a nation’s  prosperity. 

But  they  never  whisper,  nor  peep,  nor 
hint 

Of  a nation’s  partnership  with  hell — 

Of  a deal  with  a traffic  born  to  blight — 
No,  this  is  a part  they  do  not  tell. 

They  do  not  tell  of  a nation’s  sons — 

A felon  each  man  in  a prison  cell. 

The  sure  effect  of  the  cause  it  grants — 
This  belongs  to  the  part  they  do  not  tell. 

They  do  not  mentdon  the  w'ant  and  pain 
That  marks  the  hiimes  where  the  drunk- 
ards dw’ell ; 

They  never  describe  the  broken  hearts 
Nor  the  wails  that  sound  like  a funeral 
knell. 


They  do  not  picture  the  potter's  field, 
Describing  how  most  of  the  victims  fell; 
They  say  no  word  of  the  drunkard's 
doom. 

No — this  is  the  part  they  do  not  tell. 

Give  us  some  orators — men,  not  tools, 
Who  will  cry  aloud  and  never  spare. 
Until  a nation’s  league  with  sin 
Shall  of  its  gloss,  lie  stripped  and  bare. 

The  ship  of  state  with  its  sails  set  free 
Rides  high  prosperity’s  fickle  wave; 
But  under  this  smooth  inviting  sea 
The  rocks  of  destruction  surely  hide — 
Rocks  of  a legalized  deal  with  hell, 

A deal  that  the  orators  never  tell. 

— Bernie  Babcock. 


THE  JODI.'S'  DISTXZiEEB. 


Oh,  I am  a jolly  distiller; 

I’m  rich  and  contented  with  life; 

My  nose  may  be  red,  but  I am  well-fed, 
And  so  are  my  children  and  wife. 

Yes,  I am  a jolly  distiller. 

At  morning,  at  night  arid  at  noon; 

And  I never  hurry  or  get  in  a worry 
Lest  folks  should  destroy  the  saloon. 

Oh,  I am  a jolly  distiller. 

For  business  is  booming,  you  see; 

My  gains  are  immense,  (at  others’  ex- 
pense). 

And  that  is  convenient  for  me. 

For  I am  a jolly  distiller. 

An’  temperance  people  are  fools: 

But  I ain’t  afraid  o’  the  rumpus  they’ve 
made. 

For  Liquor  is  king — an’  he  rules. 

Oh,  I am  a jolly  distiller. 

Who  knows  his  position  is  strong; 

For  all  the  church  ranks,  ’ceptin’  tem- 
perance cranks. 

Are  votin’  for  us  right  along. 

Mrs.  Frank  A.  Breck. 


CAH  IT  BE  EIGHT? 


Can  it  be  right  to  take  the  fruit 
That  heaven  in  love  bestows 
And  make  the  vile,  deceitful  stuff 
That  fills  the  world  with  woes? 

Can  it  be  right  to  take  the  grain 
That  God  to  man  has  given 
And  make  of  it  the  awful  stuff 
That  keeps  men  out  of  heaven?’ 

Can  it  be  right  for  me  to  say 
That  the  men  can  buy  and  sell 
This  awful  stuff  in  such  a way 
That  sends  their  souls  to  hell? 

Can  it  be  right  for  me  to  pray 
“Thy  kingdom  come,”  and  then 
Go  cast  my  vote  in  such  a way 
That  helps  the  devil  win? 

Selected  and  revised  by  Elton  R.  Shaw. 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


519 


A B07  WAKTED. 


I want  a boy  at  my  saloon, 

A boy  has  died,  and  now  there’s  room 

For  a new  boy  to  start  right  in 
To  live  a life  of  shame  and  sin. 

I want  a boy  with  a fine  home, 

A boy  who  has  a good  income. 

I want  a boy  with  many  friends. 

For  without  boys  my  business  ends. 

I want  a boy,  some  mother’s  boy. 

Who  is  her  comfort  and  her  joy. 

Such  boys  to  me  are  worth  the  most. 
For  they  are  leaders  of  a host. 

I want  a boy  who  is  not  afrai'd 

To  start  right  on  the  downward  grade, 

A boy  who’s  always  very  brave. 

For  he  must  fill  a drunkard’s  grave. 
Selected  and  revised  by  Elton  R.  Shaw. 


THE  DBHNHABS’S  FATE. 


One  drink  won’t  hurt  a man,  they  said. 
But  ah,  alas!  I know 
My  health  has  fled,  my  hopes  are  dead. 
My  friend  is  now  my  foe. 

I once  was  clean  and  pure  and  good. 
Until  I tipped  the  bowl. 

But  now  a wrecked  and  ruined  frame, 

A blighted,  withered  soul. 

An  outcast  and  a vagabond. 

Unclean  and  all  defiled, 

Disgraced  and  ruined  without  hope 
By  appetite  beguiled. 


Beware,  young  man,  ’tis  the  first  drink 
That  starts  you  down  the  row. 

That  leads  from  purity  and  peace 
To  misery  and  woe. 

Selected  and  revised  by  Elton  R.  Shaw. 


“THE  BEER  THAT  MABE  MEEiWATJ- 
KEE  FAMOUS.” 


“The  beer  that  made  Milwaukee  famous” 
fame. 

For  which  her  noble  sons  would  blush 
with  shame. 

If  beer  her  legends  told..  Tear  down  the 
lie. 

And  rise,  Milwaukee,  rise  and  make  re- 
ply. 

Show  your  metropolis  In  light  more  fair. 

Show  where  your  handiwork  few  can 
compare. 

Blot  out  the  lying  words,  tear  down  the 
sign. 

Lift  up  an  emblem,  your  graces  refine.. 

Show  that  all  beer  is  beer,  label  or  cork. 

Ribbon  or  brand,  beer  is  beer  in  New 
York; 

Beer’s  beer  in  a keg,  and  beer’s  beer  in  a 
can. 

No  matter  if  made  away  off  in  Japan. 

So  tear  down  the  sign,  Milwaukee,  your 
beer 


Is  as  bad  as  the  worst  that  causes  a 
sneer. 

It’s  as  bad  as  the  worst  that  goes  to  the 
head. 

And  makes  a man  wish  that  he  really 
were  dead; 

It’s  as  bad  as  the  beer  that’s  taken  the 
coin, 

Which  should  have  bought  bread,  butter 
and  loin; 

It’s  as  bad  as  the  beer  that  causes  a 
fight. 

From  a sot  that  is  out  on  a drunk  for 
the  night. 

Then  rise,  city,  rise,  Milwaukee,  your 
fame 

Should  be  found  in  the  towers  that  cher- 
ish your  name. 

In  your  parks,  and  the  bay  where  the 
whitefish  abound. 

And  your  harbor  as  safe  as  ever  was 
found; 

And  your  men,  who  respond  to  charity’s 
call. 

Are  things  that  have  made  you  most 
famous  of  all. 

So  tear  down  the  maudlin,  the  frivolous 
lie, 

That  cheapens  your  worth  and  vexes  the 
eye. 

And  raise  up  a banner  the  sober  may 
cheer, 

Milwaukee  forever,  but  never  for  beer. 

— Oliver  Allstorm. 


I HAVE  DBUHE  MV  BAST  GBASS. 


No,  comrades,  I thank  you,  not  any  for 
me; 

My  last  chain  is  riven,  henceforth  I’m 
free; 

I will  go  to  my  home  and  my  children 
to-night 

With  no  fumes  of  liquor  their  spirits  to 
blight; 

And  with  tears  in  my  eyes  I will  beg 
my  poor  wife 

To  forgive  the  wreck  I have  made  of  her 
life, 

I never  refused  you  before!  Let  that 
pass. 

For  I’ve  drunk  my  last  glass,  boys;  I’ve 
drunk  my  last  glass. 


Just  look  at  me  now,  boys,  in  rags  and 
disgrace. 

With  my  bleared,  haggard  eyes,  and  my 
red,  bloated  face; 

See  my  faltering  step,  and  my  weak,  pal- 
sied hand. 

And  mark  on  my  brow  that  is  worse 
than  Cain’s  brand; 

See  my  crownle.ss  old  hat,  and  my  el- 
bows and  knees, 

Alilce  warmed  by  the  sun,  or  chilled  by 
■ the  breeze. 

Why,  even  the  children  will  hoot  as  I 
pass; 

But  I’ve  drunk  my  last  glass,  boys;  I’ve 
drunk  my  last  glass. 


520 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


You  would  scarce  believe,  boys,  to  look 
at  me  now, 

That  a mother’s  soft  hand  was  pressed 
on  my  brow 

When  she  kissed  me  and  blessed  me,  her 
darling,  her  pride, 

Ere  she  laid  down  to  rest  by  my  dear 
father’s  side; 

But,  with  love  in  her  eyes,  she  looked  up 
to  the  sky, 

Bidding  me  meet  her  there,  and  whis- 
pered, “Good-by.” 

And  I’ll  do  it,  God  helping.  Your  smile 
I let  pass. 

For  I’ve  drunk  my  last  glass,  boys;  I’ve 
drunk  my  last  glass. 

Ah!  I reeled  home  last  night;  it  was  not 
very  late. 

For  I’d  spent  my  last  sixpence,  and 
landlords  won’t  wait 

On  a fellow  who’s  left  every  cent  in 
their  till. 

And  has  pawned  his  last  bed  their  cof- 
fers to  fill. 

Oh!  the  torments  I felt,  and  the  pangs 
I endured! 

And  I begged  for  one  glass,  just  one 
would  have  cured. 

But  they  kicked  me  out  doors,  I let  that, 
too,  pass, 

For  I’ve  drunk  my  last  glass,  boys;  I 
have  drunk  my  last  glass. 

At  home,  my  pet,  Susie,  with  her  rich, 
golden  hair, 

I saw  through  the  window,  just  kneel- 
ing in  prayer; 

From  her  pale,  bony  hands  her  torn 
sleeves  hung  down, 

While  her  feet,  cold  and  bare,  shrank 
beneath  her  scant  gown; 

And  she  prayed,  prayed  for  bread,  just  a 
mere  crust  of  bread. 

For  one  crust,  on  her  knees,  my  t)oor 
darling  plead. 

And  I heard  with  no  penny  to  buy,  alas! 

But  I’ve  drunk  my  last  glass,  boys;  I’ve 
drunk  my  last  glass. 

Fer  Susie,  my  darling,  my  wee  six-year- 
old, 

Tho’  fainting  with  hunger  and  shivering 
with  cold. 

There  on  the  bare  floor  asked  God  to 
bless  me; 

And  she  said,  “Don’t  cry,  mamma.  He 
will;  for  you  see, 

I believe  what  I ask  for.”  Then  sobered 
I crept 

Away  from  the  house,  and  that  night 
when  I slept. 

Next  my  heart  lay  the  pledge.  You 
smile!  Let  it  pass. 

For  I’ve  drunk  my  last  glass,  boys;  I 
have  drunk  my  last  glass. 

My  darling  child  saved  me!  Her  faith 
and  her  love 

Are  akin  to  my  dear  sainted  mother’s 
above! 

I will  make  my  words  true  or  I’ll  die 
in  the  race. 


And  sobered  I’ll  go  to  my  last  resting 
place; 

And  she  shall  kneel  there,  and,  weeping, 
thank  God, 

No  drunkard  lies  under  the  daisy-strewn 
sod! 

Not  a drop  more  of  poison  my  lips  shall 
e’er  pass. 

For  I’ve  drunk  my  last  glass,  boys;  I 
have  drunk  my  last  glass. 

— Selected  by  E.  W.  Hurlej-. 


THAT’S  SO. 


THAT’S  SO,  the  dance  is  a joy  of  a vul- 
gar sort, 

’Tis  a sensual,  carnal,  voluptuous  sport; 

And  the  ballroom’s  a snare,  with  lewd- 
ness alive. 

Where  “mashers”  may  swarm  like  bees 
in  a hive; 

’Tis  the  highroad  where  passion  first 
yields  to  the  flame. 

Then  falls,  and  is  crushed  in  the  gutter 
in  shame. 

Go  ask  those  that  writhe  in  the  whirl- 
pool of  lust. 

How  first  they  were  led  to  a life  of  dis- 
gust; 

And  the  slattern  of  body  and  seared  one 
of  soul. 

Will  answer,  “The  ballroom  led  me  to 
this  role.” 

THAT’S  SO,  and  yet  others  will  trip  the 
mad  waltz. 

And  smile  on  the  step  so  alluring  and 
false. 

There’s  the  libertine  there — should  he 
elsewhere  employ 

His  tact  at  deception,  or  strive  to  decoy 

The  one  that  you  rocked  as  a baby  to 
sleep. 

Into  ways  that  bring  ruin,  and  pits  that 
are  deep. 

All  true  men  would  brand  him,  and 
brothers  would  rave. 

And  a bullet  may  hasten  the  friend  to 
his  grave. 

THAT’S  SO,  yet  the  ballroom  has  license 
to  fleer 

In  the  face  of  all  honor,  to  flout  and  to 
jeer 

At  the  laws  of  respect:  half-roled  they 
unite 

In  the  “hugging  to  music” — tight,  and 
more  tight: 

Then  a wine-glass  or  two  and  an  ante- 
room rest. 

And  a midnight  -wind  blowing  upon  the 
warm  breast. 

Death  lurks  in  that  wind,  and  a dirge 
moves  the  night. 

And  a fun’ral  march  follows  the  one  of 
delight. 

THAT’S  SO, — many  fair  ones  have  per- 
ished in  sin. 

For  they  never  come  out  just  as  thej' 
go  in. 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


521 


Still  men  for  “stag  dances”  shall  no 
eagerness  show, 

So  long  must  our  answer  be  sadly, 
“THAT’S  SO.” 

— Oliver  Allstorm. 


WHO  IS  TO  B£A2IX:? 


The  saloon  is  wide  open  in  our  little 
town. 

And  doing  its  best  to  succeed 

In  debauching  our  morals,  and  dragging 
us  down 

To  serve  the  saloon-keeper’s  greed. 
There  are  some  who  think 
An  occasional  drink 
Is  a thing  at  which  good  people 
surely  might  wink; 

Though  their  talk  is  all  nonsense,  their 
reasoning  lame. 

The  saloon  is  wide  open,  and  who  is  to 
blame  ? 

And  then  there  are  others  you  will  not 
find  loath 

Each  argument,  threadbare,  to  seize 

To  decry  moral  law — and  affirm  with  an 
oath, 

The  right  to  do  just  as  they  please. 
And  such  people  will. 

Of  course,  guzzle  and  swill. 

And  deposit  their  funds  in  the  bar- 
keeper’s till; 

Unlimited  license  and  freedom  they 
claim: 

The  saloon  is  wide  open,  and  who  is  to 
blame? 

We  have  plenty  of  churches  and  good 
people,  too. 

As  respectable  folk  we  are  great; 

In  comparison  drunkards  and  brawlers 
are  few 

To  the  many  who  keep  themselves 
straight. 

We  have,  by  the  way, 

A T.  M.  C.  A., 

And  devotional  service  at  noon 
every  day; 

Tet  the  truth  must  be  spoken  with  sor- 
row and  shame. 

The  saloon  is  wide  open,  and  who  is  to 
blame? 

-Frank  Beard. 


FOOBHOT7SI:  HAH. 


Did  you  say  you  wished  to  see  me,  sir? 

Step  in;  ’tis  a cheerless  place. 

But  you’re  heartily  welcome,  all  the 
same; 

Oh,  yes,  sir!  ’tis  only  twenty  winters 
gone 

Since  poor  Jim  took  to  crool^ed  ways. 

And  left  me  all  alene! 

Jim  was  my  son,  and  a likelier  lad 
You’d  never  wish  to  see, 

Till  evil  counsel  won  his  heart 
And  led  him  away  from  me. 


’Tis  the  old  and  pitiful  story,  sir. 

Of  the  devil’s  winding  stair. 

And  men  going  down,  and  down,  and 
down. 

To  blackness  and  despair; 

Tossing  about  like  wrecks  at  sea. 

With  helm  and  anchor  lost; 

On,  and  on,  through  the  surging  waves. 
Not  caring  to  count  the  cost; 

I doubt  sometimes  if  the  Saviour  sees— 
He  seems  so  far  away — 

How  the  souls  he  loved  and  died  for. 
Are  drifting,  drifting  astray. 

Indeed  ’tis  no  wonder,  sir. 

If  woman  shrieks  and  cries. 

When  the  life-blood  on  rum’s  altar 
spilled. 

Is  calling  to  the  skies; 

Small  wonder  if  her  own  heart  feels 
Each  sacrificial  blow. 

For  isn’t  each  life  part  of  hers? 

Each  pain,  each  hurt  and  woe? 

Read  all  records  of  crime  and  shame, 
’Tis  bitterly,  sadly  true: 

Where  manliness  and  honor  die. 

There  some  woman’s  heart  dies  too. 

Often  I think  when  I hear  folks 
Talk  so  prettily  and  so  fine. 

Of  alcohol  as  a needful  drink; 

Of  the  moderate  use  of  wine; 

How  the  world  couldn’t  do  without  it, 
There  was  clearly  no  other  way. 

But  for  man  to  drink  or  let  it  alone. 

As  his  own  strong  will  might  say; 
That  to  use  it,  but  not  abuse  it. 

Was  the  proper  thing  to  do; 

How  I wish  they’d  let  old  Poorhouse  Nan 
Preach  her  little  sermon,  too! 

I could  give  them  scenes  in  a woman’s 
life 

That  would  make  their  pulses  stir, 
For  I was  a drunkard’s  child  and  wife. 
Aye,  a drunkard’s  mother,  sir; 

I would  tell  of  childish  terrors, 

Of  childish  tears  and  pains. 

Of  cruel  blows  from  a father’s  hand. 
When  rum  had  crazed  his  brain. 

He  always  said  he  could  drink  his  fill. 
Or  let  it  alone  as  well; 

Perhaps  he  might,  he  was  killed  one 
night 

In  a brawl  in  a grog-shop  hell. 

I would  tell  of  years  of  loneliness 
The  drunkard’s  child  had  passed, 

With  just  one  gleam  of  sunshine. 

Too  beautiful  to  last! 

When  I married  Tom  I thought  for  sure 
I had  nothing  more  to  fear. 

That  life  would  come  all  right  at  last. 
The  world  seemed  full  of  cheer; 

But  he  took  to  moderate  drinking. 

He  allowed  ’twas  a harmless  thing. 

So  the  arrow  sped,  and  my  bird  of  hope 
Came  down  with  a broken  wing. 

Tom  was  a moderate  drinker; 

Oh,  sir!  do  you  bear  in  mind 
How  the  plodding  tortoise  in  the  race 
Left  the  fleeing  hare  behind? 


522 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


'Twas  because  he  held  right  on  and  on. 
And  steady  and  true,  if  slow; 

And  that’s  the  way,  I’m  thinking. 

That  the  moderate  drinkers  go! 

Step  over  step,  day  after  day, 

With  sleepless,  tireless  pace. 

While  the  toper  sometimes  looks  behind 
And  tarries  in  the  race. 


Ah!  heavily  in  the  well-worn  path 
Poor  Tom  walked  day  by  day; 

For  my  heartstrings  clung  around  his 
feet, 

And  tangled  up  the  way. 

The  days  were  dark,  and  the  friends 
were  gone, 

And  life  dragged  on  full  slow; 

And  children  came,  like  reapers  sad. 

To  a harvest  of  want  and  woe; 

Two  of  them  died,  and  I was  glad 
When  they  lay  before  me  dead; 

I had  grown  weary  of  their  cries. 

Their  pitiful  cries  for  bread. 

There  came  a time  when  my  heart  was 
stone; 

I could  neither  hope  nor  pray; 

Poor  Tom  lay  out  in  the  potter’s  field, 
And  my  boy  had  gone  astray. 

My  boy  who  had  been  my  idol. 

While  like  hounds  athirst  for  blood. 
Between  my  breaking  heart  and  him 
The  liquor  seller  stood. 

And  lured  him  on  with  his  poison. 

His  pleasure  and  his  wine. 

Ah!  God  have  mercy  on  other  hearts. 
As  bruised  and  sad  as  mine. 

There  were  whispers  of  evil  doings. 

Of  dishonor  and  of  shame. 

That  I cannot  bear  to  think  of  now, 

And  would  not  dare  to  name; 

There  was  hiding  away  from  the  light 
of  day, 

There  was  a creeping  about  at  night, 
A hurried  word  of  parting. 

Then  a criminal's  stealthy  flight. 
When  he  gave  me  the  good-bye  kiss; 

And  I’ve  never  seen  my  poor,  lost  boy. 
From  that  black  day  to  this. 

Ah!  none  but  a mother  can  tell  you,  sir. 
How  a mother’s  heart  will  ache 
With  the  sorrow  that  comes  of  a sinning 
child. 

With  grief  for  a lost  one’s  sake. 
When  she  knows  the  feet  she  trained  to 
walk 

Have  gone  so  far  away. 

And  the  lips  grown  bold  with  curses. 
That  she  taught  to  sing  and  pray. 

A child  may  fear,  a wife  may  weep. 

But  of  all  sad  things  none  other 
Seems  half  so  sorrowful  to  us 
As  being  a drunkard’s  mother. 

They  tell  me  that  down  in  the  vilest 
dens 

Of  the  city’s  crime  and  muck. 

There  are  men  with  the  hearts  of  angels. 
Doing  the  angels’  work; 

That  they  win  back  the  lost  and  the 
strayed. 

That  they  help  the  weak  to  stand. 


By  the  wonderful  power  of  lov^rg  >vc,;is. 
And  the  help  of  God’s  right  hand. 

And  often  and  over,  the  dear  Lord  knows, 
I’ve  knelt  and  prayed  to  Him, 

That  somehow,  somewhere,  it  would 
happen. 

That  they’d  find  and  save  my  Jim. 
You’ll  say  ’tis  a poor  old  woman’s  whim; 

But  when  I prayed  last  night. 

Right  o’er  yon  eastern  windo-w 
There  shone  a wonderful  light, 
(Leastways  it  looked  that  way  to  me) 
And  out  of  the  light  there  fell 
The  softest  voice  I ever  heard: 

It  rang  like  a silver  bell; 

And  these  were  the  words, 

“The  Prodigal  turns,  tired  by  want  and 
sin ; 

He  seeks  his  Father’s  open  door; 

He  weeps  and  enters  in.” 

Why,  sir,  you’re  crying  as  hard  as  I; 

What  is  it  I have  done? 

Have  the  loving  voice  and  helping  hand. 

Brought  back  my  wandering  son? 

Did  you  kiss  me  and  call  me  mother 
And  fold  me  to  your  breast? 

Or  is  it  one  of  those  tampering  dreams 
That  come  to  rob  me  of  my  rest? 

No,  no!  thank  God,  ’tis  a dream  come 
true; 

I know  he  has  saved  my  boy 
And  the  poor  old  heart  that  had  lived 
on  hope 

Is  broken  as  last  with  joy. 

— Selected. 


TEE  CBIMSOE  BAEEOT. 


One  day  in  a crowded  court  room 
A sentence  of  death  was  said. 

In  hush  of  the  awful  stillness: 

“To  be  hanged  by  the  neck  until  dead.” 
And  a mother’s  heart  was  broken 
As  she  faltered  a murmured  name. 
And  a father's  face  was  furrow’ed 
With  the  tears  of  grief  and  shame. 

It  was  only  one  of  the  dramas 
That  are  acted  every  day. 

And  the  judge  on  the  bench  had  asked 
him 

What  the  prisoner  had  to  say. 

“The  jury  has  said  I am  guilty,” 

Was  the  low,  resigned  reply, 

“The  land  has  summoned  the  hang-man 
And  said  that  I must  die. 

“But  before  the  God  of  Heaven 
I did  not  kill  mj'  friend. 

And  to  the  looming  scaffold 
A guiltless  man  you  send. 

The  dram-shop  did  this  murder. 

And  the  drink  that  fired  my  brain 
That  made  me  do  its  bidding, 

And  held  me  in  its  chain. 

“But  not  upon  the  dram-shop. 

Nor  brewery,  nor  still. 

Nor  on  the  high  officials, 

■Wlio  watch  them  steal  and  kill; 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


523 


But  on  your  skirts,  your  honor. 

And  every  man  who  stood 

To  legalize  the  gin-mill 

Is  stamped  the  brand  of  blood.” 

His  voice  rang  out  like  a bugle. 

No  other  sound  was  heard. 

While  something  akin  to  terror 
In  all  who  listened,  stirred. 

And  all  t.he  court  room  cowered 
Beneath  the  lash  of  truth; 

The  boy  seemed  judge  and  jury, 

And  they  the  sentenced  youth. 

“For  back  of  the  law’s  officials 
Is  the  law  that  spells  my  fate. 

And  back  of  the  law  are  the  people. 

And  the  people  are  the  State. 

My  hands  held  the  murderous  weapon. 
And  the  blood  on  its  blade  they  saw. 

But  back  of  the  dead  was  the  dram- 
shop. 

And  back  of  the  dram-shop  the  law. 

“And  whosoever  hath  voted 
To  license  this  evil,  ties 

The  shameful  noose  of  the  hang-man 
‘Round  the  neck  of  the  man  who  dies. 

And  on  his  hands  are  the  blood  drops 
And  on  his  brow  a sign 

That  he  is  the  man  who  sheddeth 
My  dead  friend’s  blood  and  mine.” 

Then  back  to  his  cell  they  led  him 
And  there  on  the  trap  he’ll  stand: 

And  the  bloody  farce  will  be  acted 
Again  and  again  in  the  land. 

And  every  reddened  gibbet 

Shall  be  for  a nation’s  blame; 

For  every  ballot  is  crimson 

That  is  cast  for  a nation’s  shame. 

— Purity  Journal. 


VOTE  IT  DOWK. 


There’s  a demon  in  the  glass. 
Vote  it  down! 

Ton  can  bring  the  thing  to  pass; 
Vote  it  down! 

Oh!  my  brothers,  do  you  know 
You  can  turn  to  joy  its  woe. 

And  its  tyranny  o’erthrow? 

Vote  it  down! 

How  it  fills  our  souls  with  dread! 
Vote  it  down! 

As  it  rears  its  serpent  head. 

Vote  it  down! 

Oh!  so  subtle  has  it  been 
Dare  not  close  your  eyes  and  say 
It  has  left  its  trail  of  sin. 

Vote  it  down! 

It  is  growing  all  the  time. 

Vote  it  down! 

To  protect  it  is  a crime. 

Vote  it  down! 

Dare  not  close  your  eyes  and  say 
“There  must  be  some  other  way,” 
Lest  your  own  the  demon  slay, 

Vote  it  down! 


In  your  manliness  arise. 

Vote  it  down! 

Throw  aside  old  party  ties. 

Vote  it  down! 

If  you  love  our  native  land. 

Smite  this  blighting,  cursing  hand 
With  your  ballot’s  magic  wand. 
Vote  it  down! 

Christian  man,  we  call  on  you. 
Vote  it  down! 

Are  you  honest?  are  you  true? 
Vote  it  down! 

Christ,  your  Saviour  crucified. 
Then,  as  though  he  stood  beside, 
Vote  it  down! 

— Ida  M.  Budd. 


DON’T  MABBT  A MAN  TO  BEFOBU 
HIM. 


Don’t  marry  a man  to  reform  him. 

To  God  and  your  own  self  be  true; 
Don’t  link  his  vice  to  your  virtue; 

You’ll  rue  it,  dear  girl,  if  you  do. 

■No  matter  how  fervent  his  pleadings. 
Be  not  by  his  good  promise  led; 

If  he  can’t  be  a man  while  a-wooing, 
He’ll  never  be  one  when  he’s  wed. 

There’s  many  a maiden  has  tried  it. 
And  just  proved  a failure  at  last; 
Better  tread  your  life’s  pathway  alone, 
dear. 

Than  to  wed  a lover  that’s  fast. 

Mankind’s  much  the  same  the  world 
over, 

The  exceptions  you’ll  find  are  but  few. 
And  the  rule  is  defeat  and  disaster — 
The  chances  are  great  against  you. 

Don’t  trust  your  bright  hopes  for  the 
future. 

The  beautiful  crown  of  your  youth. 
To  the  keeping  of  him  who  holds  lightly 
His  fair  name,  his  honor  and  truth. 

To  “honor  and  love”  you  must  promise; 

Don’t  pledge  what  you  cannot  fulfill. 
If  he’ll  have  no  respect  for  himself,  dear. 
Most  surely  you  then  never  will. 

Make  virtue  the  price  ef  your  favor; 

Place  wrong-doing  under  a ban; 

And  let  him  who  would  win  you  and 
wed  you. 

Prove  himself  in  full  measure  a man! 

— Selected. 


-WHAT  ■WHISICE’Y  VTHmIm  DO. 


I. 

They  tell  us  alcohol  removes  grass 
stains  from  summer  clothes. 

And  puts  a funny  blossom  upon  the 
drinker’s  nose. 

It  takes  the  carpet  off  the  floor,  the 
clothes  from  off  his  back. 


524 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  C0MME:RCE 


And  sends  him  stag-gering  down  the 
street  a miserable  drunken  wreck. 

II. 

It  takes  away  his  manhood,  robs  him  of 
self-respect, 

And  everything  about  the  home  is  ruined 
by  neglect, 

It  takes  his  mental  faculties  and  fills 
him  with  the  shakes. 

And , through  an  impaired  vision  he  sees 
a thousand  snakes. 

III. 

It  takes  away  his  credit  from  every  kind 
of  store. 

The  people  that  have  trusted  him  won’t 
trust  him  any  more. 

It  robs  his  wife  of  happiness  and  steals 
the  children’s  bread. 

And  turns  them  out  to  charity  in  order 
to  be  fed. 

IV. 

It  will  take  a prosperous  business  man 
and  make  of  him  a bum. 

If  you  want  to  see  a maniac,  just  fill  him 
up  with  rum. 

It  will  make  him  beat  and  kick  his  wife 
and  take  away  her  life. 

And  change  the  home  of  happiness  to 
misery  and  strife. 

V. 

It  fills  our  jails  with  criminals,  supplies 
the  orphan’s  home. 

And  turns  men’s  v/ives  upon  the  street 
in  misery  to  roam. 

It  takes  all  sunshine  from  their  life  and 
fills  them  with  despair. 

And  sends  them  to  the  river  to  end  their 
sorrows  there. 

VI. 

Yes,  alcohol  will  do  all  this;  it  has  done 
it  all  before. 

Yet  men  endowed  with  common  sense 
will  drink  and  call  for  more. 

May  God  help  every  citizen  to  rise  in  all 
his  might. 

And  free  our  land  and  nation  from  the 
gin-mill’s  awful  blight. 

—David  Warnock. 


THE  SAXiOON  BAB. 


It  bars  the  doors  of  happiness. 

And  bolts  the  doors  of  love; 

Plants  thorns  and  thistles  in  the  path 
That  leads  to  heaven  above. 

It  bars  the  sunlight  from  the  home, 
Where  peace  and  joy  have  fled. 

Before  the  plague  of  misery. 

Of  gloom  and  shadows  dread. 

It  bars  the  gate  of  self-respect. 

Behind  the  wayward  youth. 

And  fills  his  mouth  with  language  foul. 
With  lies  instead  of  truth. 


It  bars  the  father  from  his  home. 

And  clothes  his  wife  with  shame. 

As  hope  and  health  are  sacrificed 
To  feed  this  hellish  flame. 

It  bars  the  door  of  rest  to  age. 

When  life  is  on  the  wane. 

And  in  the  couch  of  peacefulness 
It  plants  the  thorns  of  pain. 

It  bars  its  dupes  from  all  that  makes 
The  life  of  mortals  dear. 

And  in  the  lonely  night  of  death 
Has  not  a word  of  cheer. 

It  bars  the  drunkard  out  of  heaven. 
And  drops  him  into  hell. 

With  all  the  damned  of  ages  past. 
Forever  there  to  dwell. 

It  fills  the  grave  with  terror’s  gloom. 
For  those  who  look  ahead. 

And  rears  a slab  of  charity 
Above  the  unknown  dead. 

Upon  the  drunkard’s  grave  I see 
These  words  which  plainly  tell; 

“Life  was  to  me  a mockery. 

Death  is  an  endless  hell.” 

' — Selected. 


SAEOOH  KEEFEB’S  SOIiII.O<2T7Y. 


“The  saloons  must  go,”  the  croakers  say. 
And  go  it  will  both  night  and  day! 

For  to  this  end  with  heart  intent 
We  pay  spot  cash  to  a cent. 

With  Uncle  Sam’s  guns  at  our  back. 
The  prating  fools  must  clear  the  track — 
For  the  orphan’s  tear,  the  widow’s  sigh. 
Let  the  fanatics  whine  and  cry. 

We  know  our  trade  will  thousands  wreck. 
But  ca^i  must  come  our  homes  to  deck — 
A broken  heart,  a mother’s  prayer. 
Though  the  result  is  not  our  care. 

Wlien  Uncle  Sam  with  courage  bold. 

Our  business  brave  doth  still  uphold. 
With  such  a chance  our  pot  to  fill. 

We’ll  spurn  results  and  run  our  mill. 

What  if  some  fools  blear’eyed  do  grow 
As  a result  of  what  we  sow? 

Are  we  our  brother’s  keeper,  ’cause 
Our  business  wrecks  and  breaks  God's 
laws? 

Nay!  hold  your  tongues!  keep  down  your 
ire! 

Our  bosses  buy  this  liquid  fire! 
Eighty-nine  per  gallon  and  one  cent, 

A tax  to  run  the  government. 

We  dilute  the  stuff  and  dole  it  out 
To  thirsty  guzzlers  all  about. 

Say,  Christian  voter,  who’s  to  blame? 
Say,  good  old  parties,  where’s  the  shame? 

— Selected. 


525 


526 


Dishonest  business!  No,  indeed! 

We’ll  have  our  l ights,  by  beck. 

Fanatics  say  they’ll  vote  it  on  ; 

They’ll  get  it  in  the  neck! 

The  vice  andcrime!  Well  what’sthe  diff. 

Men  have  to  have  their  booze; 

Better  have  their  liberty 
And  go  without  their  shoes. 


A score  or  more  of  customers 

Have  found  that  they  were  dead; 

They’re  up  among  the  angels  now 
And  others  buy  instead. 

The  brothels,  dens  of  infamy. 

And  gambling  hells  galore— 

The  Prohis  say  they’ll  drive  them  out; 
We’d  only  start  up  more. 

The  bosses  of  both  gangs  are  here 
And  play  the  game  they  can;^ 

They  know  we’re  running  politics. 

They’re  with  us  to  a man. 


Our  brave  trust-busting  socialists 
Kick  up  an  awful  fuss. 

But  “Pals,  we’ll  stand  right  pat,”  they  say. 
If  you’ll  only  vote  for  us. 


The  preacher  on  the  corner  there. 
Who  leads  the  prohi  throng, 
Would  not  for  half  a million  votes 
Thus  “cohipromise  with  wrong.” 

He  thinks  that  folks  should  always  vote 
Exactly  as  they  pray. 

Religion’s  good  ’most  anytime 
Except  on  ’lection  day. 

The  cranks  can  sing  their  temp’rance 
songs. 

We  don’t  care  what  they  say, 

But  men  will  have  their  liberty 
Until  the  judgement  day . 527 


BY  ELTON  R.SHfiW— 


In  a favorite  daily  of  this,  our 
fair  land, 

Appeared  a large  ad  of  the  Bud- 
welser  brand. 

The  description  was  charming 
and  fluently  made 
Of  the  mammoth  output  of  this 
company’s  trade. 

One  hundred  and  twenty-eight 
acres  of  land 

Is  used  by  the  brewery  of  Bud- 
welser  brand. 

The  two  hundred  tanks  there 
will  hold,  s©  they  say, 

For  two  million  people,  —a  bot- 
tle each  day. 

It’s  a wonderful  story  from  their 
standpoint  of  greed, 

But  sad  and  heartrending  to  hu- 
manity’s need. 

I doubt  if  the  acres  about  which 
they  tell 

Would  bury  the  drunkards 
they’re  sending  to  hell. 

Would  the  two  hundred  tanks 
there,  now  holding  the  beer. 
Hold  the  tears  of  the  lonely  ones 
mourning  each  year? 

“There  are  three  million  tramps 
and  two  million  women 
Cursed  by  their  traffic’’— to  pov- 
erty driven. 

Ah,  yes,  its  a story  they’re  tell- 
ing with  pride. 

But  if  only  they’d  add  the  poor 
customer’s  side, 

’Twould  be  far  more  truthful 
but  sadder  to  read,— 

A story  of  woe  and  of  anguish 
and  greed. 


Already  the  papers  are  taking 
their  stand 

And  refusing  the  ads  of  tills  curse  of  our  land. 

For  this  “There’s  a reason.’’  The  traffic  must  go. 

And  with  it,  its  misery,  sorrow  and  woe. 


528 


JO 


The  saloonkeepers  all  may 
be  vei'y  nice  men, 

But  ivhat  is  there  in  it  for 
me? 

I blow  in  my  money,  and 
wake  up  in  the  pen. 

So  what  is  there  in  it  for  me? 

Of  course,  I’m  as  welcome  as 
flowers  in  May, 

When  I come  to  the  joint  t o 
sauander  my  pay. 

But  I wake  in  the  cooler  the  very 
next  day: 

And  there’s  all  there’s  in  it  for  me , 

All  over  this  country  we’re  swimming 
in  booze. 

But  what  is  there  in  it  for  me! 

The  saloonkeeper’s  kids  are  .wearing  new 
SllOGS* 

But  what  is  there  in  it  for  me? 

The  distiller’s  share  is  an  automobile, 

A carriage  the  retailer’s  share  of  the  deal. 

But  I’m  wearing  shoes  that 
are  down  at  the  heel : 

And  there’s  al  there’s  in  it  for  me. 


The  boozemaker’s  wife  may  be 
dressed  like  a Queen, 

But  what  is  there  in  it  for  me? 

My  wife  hasn’t  duds  that  are  ' 

be  seen  ® 

So  what  isthere  in  it  for  xna-) 

The  beei’  brewer’s  son  m a ^ 

dressed  like 

But  It  we  vote  “wet,'’  V’rv,  ^ 
I’ll  go  nude;  I m afraid 

And  that’s  all  there’s  in  it  for  me. 


My  thirsty  costs  m e 


, clothes  and  C°fo®odl'^“ 

The  bar-man  gets  paid,  he’s  always 
on  deck. 

But  whatever  1 get,  I get  in  the  neck; 
And  that’s  ali  there’s  in  it  for  me. 


hy  should  I vote  that  the  curse  may  endure? 
For  what  is  there  in  it  for  me? 

I m bound  to  vote  dry  on  election  da.v. 
sure. 

For  what  is  there  in  it  for  me? 

A new  self-respect,  and  a chance 
for  my  life, 

New  clothes  for  the  kids,  and 
a home  for  my  wife. 

The  beginning  of  peace,  the 
end  of  all  strife; 

And  that’s  what  there’s  in 
it  for  me. 


529 


VERJSOIiE,  Evemorti' 

Hones  end  heaiis  sundered 
tbrc/t  io  the  Valley  of  Vealh 
Dally  five  kindred. 

Odk/ard  the  Drink  Brigade  f 
VlcHms  of  legal  trade 
Dh  the  Valley  of  Death 
Daily  JtOe  Hanrdrti. 


FoVkard  the  VUnk  Brigade  t 
Is  Here  B»  men  dismayed? 
Yes,  for  a Nalion  knsvrs 
Sormeat  fm  tkattrad. 
Vstlets  It  make  nfify, 
VssSess  to  reason  «4sb 
Thelt't  bo!  to  ddnk  and  dlai 
Onto  8tt  FUQ9  ofDuti 
Dsty  Fivt  itmdtoS, 


naan 

SHoons  to  the  right  of  them. 
Saloons  to  the  left  of  them. 
Saloons  att  around  then, 

PUfadlt  untgartibered, 

9lound  by  a fiera  Asbt, 

Lashed  hy  eat  Imoard  fire. 
Haunted  by  demons  dire, 
edbandoned  and  hungered; 
Storm^  at  ’D/rth  scorn  and  curse, 
UHle  they  reck  for  morse. 
Smarming  the  fame' of  deatn. 
Choking  at  hell's  hoi  breath. 
Senseless  they  fall  in  death 
Daily  Jive  Hundred. 

a a a a 

Onee  they  could  God  invoke. 

Ere  iheir  mill  po'toer  teas  broke. 
Felleo  by  a traffic's  stroke. 
Licensed  by  ChristrM  folk. 

HoTo  Heaven's  hope  sundered. 
Back  on  the  reeking  air. 

Sounds  forth  their  dark  despair. 
Echoes  their  soul's  fierce  prayer 
Daily  Five  Hundred 

a a a a 

tVhen  mill  'Hum's  conquest  end?, 
HOio  derts  the  cause  defend? 

Has  €hlercy  slumbered ?a 
Cod  let  the  march  be  stayed. 

Cal!  Justice  to  their  aid. 

Pity  the  Drink  Brigade, 

■Save  the  Five  Hundredl 
* * * 


Vourtesy  Hame  Herald  Co 


-S30 


PART  V 

SONGS 


■"•sir 


' • * 


■:-k' 


/ 


Sri^'i, 


„ "hy 

‘1  . ',  ,,, ’IrC)  i-V’, 


mi'  , , • " ‘ -c,'  ' 

i5i,  'J  ‘Aii'>'V  1 ''■ ' ,s/ . ’ • V- ’ f - <'  i ■ /'  >■  t 


r - /i 


..0^ 

• .'■  V<.v>  l /.  .>.TJ 

...V..>-..v...-.-w^^ 

>yM 


■;;.fe<^ 


■';-i-  ii 


r 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


533 


WOBI.I>  IS  GOIKG  SST. 


Tune:  “Bringing'  in  the  Sheaves.” 


Sowing  all  around  us,  sowing  seeds  of 
temperance, 

“Vote  to  save  the  boys”  shall  be  our 
rallying  cry. 

Looking  for  a victory  at  the  next  elec- 
tion. 

Now  we  sing  rejoicing,  “The  town  is 
going  dry.” 

(Chorus  repeat  last  two  lines.) 

Hear  the  prayer  of  mothers,  pleading 
for  their  children. 

And  the  cry  of  drunkards,  help  us  or 
we  die. 

We  will  help  our  brothers  as  they  strive 
for  freedom. 

So  we  sing  with  gladness,  the  county 
is  going  dry. 

Chorus. 

Go  then  forth  with  courage,  working  for 
the  tempted. 

Standing  close  together,  as  the  time 
draws  nigh. 

We  know  the  right  will  conquer,  God 
himself  will  help  us. 

So  we  shout  the  chorus,  the  state  is 
going  dry. 

Chorus. 

The  drink  curse  held  our  nation,  in  its 
cruel  clutches. 

Now  its  grip  is  broken,  hear  the 
whine  and  cry. 

We  will  drive  the  rum  shops,  far  be- 
yond our  borders. 

For  we  see  most  surely  the  nation  is 
going  dry. 

Chorus. 

See  the  mighty  army,  steadily  advanc- 
ing, 

All  the  world  for  temperance,  on  their 
banners  high. 

God  is  their  commander,  and  he  says 
go  forward. 

So  we  sing  rejoicing,  the  world  is  go- 
ing dry. 

Chorus. 

The  world  is  going  dry,  the  world  is 
going  dry. 

So  we  sing  rejoicing,  the  world  is  going 
dry. 


THE  BIGHT  SHAEE  FBETAIE. 


Tune:  “Sweet  By-and-By.” 

When  the  right  over  wrong  shall  pre- 
vail. 

When  the  woes  of  wine-drinking  shall 
cease, 

Then  all  nations  and  people  shall  hail 
With  a shout  the  grand  triumph  of 
peace. 

Chorus: 

It  will  come,  by-and-by. 

When  the  race  out  of  childhood  has 


grown; 

It  will  come,  by-and-by — 

Then  the  age  of  true  manhood  shall 
dawn. 

Right  ordains  that  the  old  wrongs  shall 
cease. 

And  make  way  for  the  growth  of  re- 
form; 

Truth  and  wisdom  proclaim  from  on 
high. 

That  the  triumph  of  virtue  must  come. 
Chorus: 

It  will  come,  by-and-by. 

When  the  sway  of  foul  passion  is  o'er; 

It  will  come,  by-and-by — 

Then  fair  reason  shall  rule  evermore. 


STAKE  UP  FOB  TEMPEBAKCE. 

Tune:  “Stand  Up,  Stand  Up  for  Jesus.” 


Stand  up,  stand  up  for  Temp’rance, 
Ye  soldiers  of  our  cause; 

Lift  high  our  royal  banner. 

Nor  let  it  suffer  loss. 

From  vict’ry  unto  vict’ry. 

Our  army  shall  be  led, 

Till  ev’ry  foe  is  vanquish’d. 

And  all  are  free  indeed. 

Stand  up,  stand  up  for  Temp’rance, 
Against  unnumbered  foes; 

Tour  courage  rise  with  danger. 

And  strength  to  strength  oppose: 

Forth  to  this  mighty  conflict — 

Go  in  this  glorious  hour — 

Where  duty  calls,  or  danger. 

Be  never  wanting  there. 

— G.  Duffleld. 


'WHEK  BUM  SHAEE  CEASE  TO 
BEIGK. 


Tune:  “When  Johnny  Comes  Marching 
Home  Again.” 


Get  ready  for  the  jubilee. 

Hurrah!  hurrah! 

When  this  our  country  shall  be  free. 
Hurrah!  hurrah! 

The  girls  will  sing,  the  boys  will  shout. 

When  alcohol  is  driven  out; 

And  we’ll  all  feel  gay  when  whiskey  is 
no  more. 

And  we’ll  all  feel  gay  when  whiskey  is 
no  more. 

We’re  only  children  now,  you  know. 
Hurrah!  hurrah! 

But  temp’rance  children  always  grow. 
Hurrah!  hurrah! 

The  girls  will  all  be  women  then, 

The  boys,  of  course,  will  all  be  men. 

And  we’ll  all  fight  rum  till  rum  shall 
be  no  more. 

And  we’ll  all  fight  rum  till  rum  shall 
be  no  more. 

From.Maine  to  California, 

Hmrrah!  hurrah! 

From  Delaware  to  Canada, 

Hurrah!  hurrah! 

The  struggle  now  is  going  on, 


534 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


And,  "when  the  mighty  victory’s  won, 

We’ll  all  feel  gay  that  whiskey  reigns 
no  more, 

We’ll  all  feel  gay  that  whisl5:ey  reigns 
no  more. 

It  will  not  do  to  simply  say, 

Hurrah!  hurrah! 

But  do  your  duty,  then  you  may 
Hurrah!  hurrah! 

Assist  the  weak,  yourself  deny. 

Stand  by  the  right,  and  bye-and-bye 

We’ll  all  feel  gay  that  whiskey  reigns 
no  more. 

We’ll  all  feel  gay  that  whiskey  reigns 
no  more. 

— Edward  Carswell. 


GOD  BDESS  OUB  CATTSB. 


Tune:  “America.” 


God  bless  our  sacred  cause! 

We  plead  for  righteous  laws. 

Our  homes  to  shield. 

Our  land  has  suffered  long. 

From  an  accursed  wrong. 

Whose  roots  are  deep  and  strong. 
Nor  do  they  yield. 

We  plead!  but  all  in  vain; 

The  people’s  deep-felt  pain 
Finds  no  redress. 

This  deadly  Upas  tree 
Spreads  out,  despite  our  plea. 
And  plants  its  rootlets  free; 

To  our  distress. 

Now  let  the  people  come. 

And  vote  for  God  and  home. 

And  temperance  laws! 

We’ll  be  no  more  deceived: 

Our  land  must  be  retrieved. 

And  from  this  curse  relieved! 

God  bless  our  cause! 


THE  WOBZ.D  IS  GBOWING  BRIGHT. 


Tune:  “Old  Black  Joe.” 


Gone  are  the  days  when  saloons  all  have 
their  way; 

Gone  many  men  who  upheld  them  day 
by  day: 

Shout  and  be  glad  for  saloons  are  sure 
to  go. 

All  omens  of  the  future  point  this  way, 
I know. 

Chorus; 

It’s  coming,  it’s  coming. 

Yes,  the  day  is  coming  on. 

When  the  saloon  and  all  its  curse. 
Will  soon  be  gone. 

Why  should  I weep  when  the  world  is 
growing  bright;  • 

Why  should  I sigh  when  the  land  is 
filled  with  light; 

Grieve  not  thyself  for  mistakes  of  long 
ago. 


But  come  and  help  us  press  the  fight 
against  the  foe. 

Go  forth,  my  friends,  and  fight  this  foe 
unjust. 

Strike  the  saloons  and  crush  them  to 
the  dust. 

Then  will  appear  a day  of  joy  unknown 

To  men  who  weep  and  sadly  reap  what 
they  have  sown. 

— Rev.  O.  R.  Miller. 


storm;  THE  FORT  FOR  FRO- 
HIBITIOH. 


Tune;  “Hold  the  Fort.” 


Hark!  ye  voters,  hear  the  bugle 
Calling  to  the  fray; 

“Prohibition”  is  our  watchword. 

Right  shall  win  the  day. 

Chorus: 

Storm  the  fort  for  Prohibition, 
Captives  signal  stiil. 

Answer  back  to  their  petition, 

“By  our  votes  we  will.” 

See  the  haughts’’  rum-shops’  banner 
On  the  fortress  wall: 

Hurl  the  temp’rance  ballots  ’gainst  it 
Till  the  ramparts  fall. 

Face  the  grog-shops’  bold  defiance. 
Never  fear  or  quail. 

Coward  foes  will  soon  surrender: 
Voters!  do  not  fail. 


hurrah  for  frohibitioh. 


Tune:  “Yankee  Doodle.” 


The  Temp’rance  folks  are  waking  up 
Throughout  the  Yankee  nation. 

To  put  the  liquor  traffic  down. 

And  drive  it  from  creation. 

The  stills  and  drinking  dens  are  doom'd 
To  lawful  demolition: 

For  all  good  men  are  going  in 
For  legal  Prohibition. 

Chorus: 

Prohibition  is  the  song. 

We’ll  shout  it  through  the  nation; 
Prohibition  to  the  wrong 

Is  right  through  ail  creation. 

Too  long  King  Alcohol  has  reigned. 

All  moral  suasion  scorning; 

Too  long  his  murd’rous  savages 
Have  filled  the  land  with  mourning. 
Rumsellers  care  not  for  our  prayers. 

Or  tears,  or  admonition; 

But  there’s  a pow’r  can  make  them 
quake — 

’Tis  legal  Prohibition. 

Chorus: 

No  scoffs  or  foes  or  doubts  of  friends 
Shall  weaken  our  endeavor 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


535 


To  brand  the  traffic  with  disgrace, 
And  wipe  it  out  forever! 

Right  on  shall  go  the  noble  work 
Until  its  full  completion; 

We’ll  “fight  it  out  upon  the  line” 

Of  total  Prohibition! 

Chorus: 

— Rev.  O.  R.  Miller. 


THE  GEEAT  MOVEMENT. 


Tune:  “Tramp,  Tramp,  Tramp.” 


There’s  a movement  strong  and  grand 
Spreading  over  all  the  land. 

Giving  joy  and  peace  and  gladness  to 
the  world, 

‘Tis  a battle  for  the  right. 

And  our  boys  are  in  the  fight, 

And  our  Anti-Saloon  banner  is  unfurled. 

Chorus: 

Vote,  vote,  vote,  the  boys  are  marching. 
Cheer  up,  comrades,  never  yield. 

We  are  ready  for  the  fray. 

And  we’re  sure  to  win  the  day. 

Then  we’ll  drive  the  league  of  liquor 
from  the  field. 

Shall  our  birthright  be  denied? 

Shall  we  see  our  laws  defied 
By  a league  of  liquor  dealers  who  de- 
mand 

With  their  scornful  bitter  hate. 

That  within  our  own  dear  state. 

Not  a law  that  checks  their  fiendish 
trade  shall  stand. 

No,  the  edict  has  gone  forth. 

Prom  the  South,  the  East,  the  North, 
From  the  valleys  to  the  highest  moun- 
tain domes. 

With  our  fortunes  and  our  lives. 

We’ll  protect  our  sons  and  w'ires. 

And  defend  the  sacred  altars  of  our 
homes, 

— Rev.  O.  R.  Miller. 


'WEEN  WE  VOTE  TEE  SALOONS 
OET. 


Tune:  “Marching  Thro’  Georgia.” 


Come  and  gather  ’round,  my  friends; 

We’ll  sing  a temp’rance  song; 

Sing  it  wdth  a spirit  that  will 
Start  our  cause  along; 

Sing  it  as  we  soon  shall  sing  it — 

Many  thousand  strong, 

When  we  shall  vote  the  saloons  out. 

Chorus: 

Hurrah!  hurrah!  ’twill  bring  the  jubilee! 
Hurrah!  hurrah!  the  vote  will  make  us 
free! 

Soon  we’ll  sing  the  chorus  from  the 
mountain  to  the  sea, 

While  we  go  marching  to  vlct’ry. 

How  the  mothers  and  the  waves 
Will  shout  to  hear  the  sound. 


How  the  hearts  of  children  too 
With  happiness  will  bound; 

How  the  blessed  new's  will  spread 
The  whole  wide  world  around. 

When  we  shall  vote  the  sadoons  out. 

Many  homes  will  then  be  bright 
That  now  are  full  of  woe; 

Business  then  will  be  quite  brisk. 
Which  now  is  very  slow; 

Churches  will  be  crowded  full,  wh«r« 
Now  few  peofjle  go. 

When  we  shall  vote  the  saloons  out. 

Come,  then,  all  ye  loyal  man. 

And  join  us  in  the  fight; 

Come  and  join  the  army  tha-t  ywi 
Know  is  in  the  right; 

Come  and  help  us  win  the  day, 

’Twdll  fill  the  foe  with  frlghA 

When  we  shall  vote  the  saloons  out. 

— Rev.  O.  !R.  Mllleir. 


HO  LICENSE  SHALL  TBUTMIPH. 


Tune:  “Alarchlng  Thro’  Geor,gla.” 


Wake  ye  people,  everywhere,  and  strike 
a mighty  blow. 

Strike  the  enemy  of  home,  of  native 
land  the  foe; 

Sound  the  order  thro’  the  town  that 
each  saloon  must  go. 

And  then  No  License  shall  triumph. 

Choru-s: 

Hurrah!  hurrah!  lift  high  the  banner 
white! 

Hurrah!  hurrah!  we’ve  ’listed  for  the 
fight, 

Alcohol  and  all  his  kin  we’ll  bury  out  of 
sight, 

Whene’er  No  License  shall  triumph. 

License,  low,  ot  even  high,  are  sins 
we’ll  not  endure, 

No  license  only  is  our  plan,  we  have  na 
other  cure. 

Fight  it  out  upon  this  line,  and  victory 
is  sure. 

And  then  No  License  shall  triumph. 

License,  friends,  is  but  a trick  to  let  the 
demon  in, 

Never  yet  was  vlct’ry  won  by  aompro- 
mise  with  sin. 

Vote  then  straight  against  it,  boys,  and 
you  are  sure  to  win. 

And  then  No  License  shall  triumph. 

Long  onr  town  has  waited  for  the  work 
that  we  must  do. 

Laurels  are  in  waiting  for  the  neble 
temp’rance  crew. 

Great  the  vlct’ry  we  shall  win,  if  we  are 
brave  and  true, 

Whene’er  No  License  shall  triumph. 

Chorus  to  last  stanza: 

Hurrah!  hurrah! . we’ll  drive  the  traffic 
out! 


536 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


Hurrah!  hurrah!  the  foe  we'll  put  to 
route; 

AVhen  at  last  our  town  is  free,  we’ll 
raise  a mighty  shout. 

That  No  License  has  triumphed. 

— Rev.  O.  R.  Miller. 


THE  TEMPEBAKCE  'WAVE. 


Tune:  “Red,  White,  and  Blue.’’ 


The  Temperance  wave  is  far  spreading. 
And  rolling  all  over  the  town; 

The  people  in  might  are  uprising 
To  help  us  put  rum  selling  down. 

We  are  seeking  to  help  the  downtrodden. 
To  make  them  both  sober  and  true; 
Then  rally  around  our  proud  banner, 
And  pledge  it  your  faith  here  anew. 

Chorus: 

We’ll  vote  for  the  home  and  No  License! 
(Yes,  we  will!) 

We’ll  vote  for  the  home  and  No  License! 
(Yes.  we  will!) 

We’ll  vote  for  the  home  and  No  License! 
For  the  right  and  our  homes  we’ll  be 
true. 

No  license!  bright  star  of  life’s  ocean. 

Thou  wilt  set  many  thousands  free 
Prom  alcohol’s  raging  commotion. 

All  true  hearts  give  homage  to  thee. 
Thy  ma.ndates  make  warriors  assemble. 
When  rum’s  fearful  curse  stands  in 
view; 

Thy  banners  'make  alcohol  tremble. 
’Three  cheers  for  the  right  and  the 
true! 

Oh,  think  of  the  homes  that  are  happy. 
Of  hearts  that  are  gladdened  to-day: 
Of  mothers  and  sisters  rejoicing. 

Of  friends  that  we  love  far  away; 
Because  that  our  voters  so  many. 

With  purpose  so  high  and  so  true. 
Have  promised  to  vote  for  No  License, 
Three  cheers!  for  the  brave  are  not 
few! 


— Rev.  O.  R.  Miller. 

NO  LICENSE  EOBBTTER! 


Tune;  “Battle  Cry  of  Freedom.  ’ 


We  are  coming  to  the  polls,  boys. 
We’re  coming  in  our  might. 

Voting  for  temp’rance  and  No  License; 

And  we  bear  the  stars  and  stripes 
Of  the  Union  and  the  right, 

Voting  for  temp’rance  and  No  License. 

Chorus: 

No  License  forever!  Hurrah!  boys.  Hur- 
rah! 

Drive  now  the  rumshop  forever  afar. 
As  we  rally  round  the  polls,  boys. 
United  in  our  cause. 

Voting  for  temp’rance  and  No  License. 
We  will  soon  decide  the  day,  boys. 


For'honest  men  and  true, 

Voting  for  temp’rance  and  No  License: 

And  we’ll  show  what  all  the  world 
Has- for  sober  men  to  do. 

Voting  for  temp'rance  and  No  License. 
Yes,  for  liberty  and  order. 

For  honor  true  and  bright. 

Voting  for  temp’rance  and  No  License; 

And  the  vict’ry  shall  be  ours. 

For  we’re  coming  in  our  might. 

Voting  for  temp’rance  and  No  License. 

— Rev.  O.  R.  Miller. 


SAY,  VOTERS,  ARE  YOU  READY? 


Tune:  • “Yankee  Doodle.” 


Come,  friends,  and  listen  to  a song. 
About  our  mightj'  nation; 

On  ev-’ry  hand  where’er  there’s  rum, 
You’ll  find  sad  dissipation. 

Chorus: 

Temperance  voters,  keep  it  up, 

Give  our  homes  protection: 

Knock  the  rummies  out  of  sight 
At  every  town  election. 

Now  listen,  friends,  for  we  propose. 

To  give  some  common  sense. 

And  that  is,  “stop  this  curse  of  rum 
By  voting  for  No  License!” 

We’ve  had  enough  of  license  laws. 
Enough  of  liquor  taxes. 

We’ve  turned  the  grind-stone  long 
enough, 

’Tis  time  to  swing  our  axes. 

This  deadly  Upas-tree  must  fall — 

Let  strokes  be  strong  and  steady; 

Pull  up  the  stumps!  grubb  out  the  roots’ 
Say,  voters,  are  j'ou  ready? 

— Rev.  O.  R.  Miller. 


TEMPERANCE  FOLKS,  WAKE  UP. 


Tune:  “Yankee  Doodle.” 


I The  temp’rance  folks  are  waking  up 
I Throughout  this  Yankee  nation. 

To  put  the  liquor  traffic  down. 

And  drive  it  from  creation. 

! Chorus: 

1 That’s  the  way  to  win  the  day; 

‘ Wait  a little  longer; 

Rum  shall  fail,  with  tyrants  all. 

When  Temp’rance  votes  are  stronger. 

li  The  drinking  dens  are  surely  doomed,' 
For  God  will  come  with  vengeance. 
Since  all  good  men  are  going  in 
I'  United  for  No  License. 

|i  Too  long  King  Alcohol  has  reigned, 

-A.!!  moral  suasion  scorning; 

Too  long  his  murd’rous  savages 
|,  Have  filled  the  land  with  mourning. 

j Rumsellers  care  not  for  our  prayers, 
j Or  tears  or  admonition; 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


537 


But  there’s  a power  can  make  them 
quake, 

'Tis  well-enforced  No  License. 

Rum’s  hindered  many  a noble  plan, 

And  scattered  death  and  ruin; 

But  soon  we’ll  show  the  best  we  can. 
What  Temp’rance  votes  are  doing. 

— Rev.  O.  R.  Miller. 


conn:  axtd  sots  ous  abiov. 


Tune:  “Tramp,  Tramp,  Tramp.” 


Old  King  Alcohol  has  long 
Been  a tyrant  bold  and  strong. 

And  he  holds  a bloody  scepter  in  this 
town. 

Will  you  join  our  Temp’rance  cause? 
Will  you  say  to  him  now,  pause! 

Will  you  come  and  help  us  crush  this 
monster  down? 

Choi’us: 

Come!  Come!  Come!  and  join  our  army! 

Help  us  put  the  traffic  down; 

Stand  up  boldly  for  the  right, 

Then  the  foe  we’ll  put  to  flight, 

And  we’ll  drive  the  cruel  tyrant  from 
the  town. 

O,  now,  voters,  will  not  you 
Come  and  join  this  army  true? 

For  your  ballots  at  the  polls  will  help 
restrain. 

This  great  enemy  of  truth 
And  pi'otect  our  boys  and  youth. 

And  ’twill  help  the  cause  of  Temp’rance 
to  maintain. 

Shall  this  bloated  tyrant  come 
With  this  whisky,  beer  and  rum. 

And  our  country  fair  w'ith  ruin  cover 
o’er? 

Friends  of  God  and  man,  arise! 

Fight  till  all  beneath  the  skies 

Bear  the  curse  of  Old  King  Alcohol 
no  more. 

— Rev.  O.  R.  Miller. 


OUB  COUNTBV. 


Tune:  “America.” 

Our  country,  ’tis  for  thee. 

That  thou  mightst  rescued  be 
From  power  of  rum; 

That  those  who’ve  suffered  long 
From  cruelty  and  wrong. 

May  free  be  made  and  strong. 
For  this  we  come. 

Our  native  country,  thee, 

Who  has  been  twice  made  free. 
To  thee  we  call; 

Once  more  exert  thy  might. 
Maintain  the  cause  of  right. 
The  liquor  traffic  smite. 

Once  and  for  all. 

Oh,  voters,  true  and  brave. 

Shall  the  rum  king  enslave, 


This  land  so  bright? 

Shall  crime  and  want  increase, 

O,  shall  this  traffic  cease? 

Shall  strife  give  way  to  peace. 
And  wrong  to  right? 

— Rev.  O.  R.  Miller. 


'WB’X.i;  BX:rEBT>  OUB  HOSCBS. 


Tune:  “Tramp,  Tramp,  Tramp.” 


O,  the  sadness  of  our  homes. 

When  the  rule  of  liquor  comes. 

With  so  many  thousands  falling  ’neath 
its  power: 

But  we’ll  seek  to  stem  the  tide. 

And  the  evil  set  aside. 

And  we’ll  look  to  God  for  refuge  in 
that  hour. 

Chorus: 

Hark!  hark!  hark!  our  God  is  speaking. 
Telling  of  His  power  and  love; 

And  the  people  in  His  might 
Are  now  springing  to  the  fight. 

And  we’ll  shout  aloud  the  vicfi’ry  from 
above. 

We  have  seen  the  angry  nod 
Of  the  enemies  of  God; 

And  our  Sabbaths  they  have  sworn 
they’ll  set  aside. 

And  they  make  a great  parade. 

With  their  liquor  signs  displayed. 

But  we’ll  turn  against  them  now  the 
rising  tide. 

Yes,  our  Sabbaths  we’ll  defend — 

Homes  with  love  and  joy  shall  blend. 
And  we’ll  sweep  old  Alcohol  into  t’ue 
sea; 

And  we’d  have  you  make  a note 
That  we’ll  do  this  with  our  vote, 

Then  we’ll  sing  the  blessed  anthem  of 
the  free. 

—Rev.  O.  R.  Miller. 


VOTIKTCr  POB  NO  IiICBNSi:. 


Tune;  “Rally  Round  the  Flag.” 


We  will  rally  for  the  right,  friends. 
We’ll  rally  once  again. 

Voting  ever  for  No  License! 

We  will  save  our  boys  and  men. 

From  the  liquor  seller’s  den. 

Voting  ever  for  No  License! 

Chorus: 

Our  triumph  is  coming,  arise  men,  arise! 
Down  with  traffic!  strike  till  it  dies! 
Let  us  rally  for  the  right. 

Let  us  rally  once  again. 

Voting  ever  for  No  License! 

We  will  answer  to  the  call  of  the 
Women  of  the  town. 

Voting  ever  for  No  License! 

We  will  fight  in  their  defense. 

And  the  traffic  shall  go  down, 

Voting  ever  for  No  License! 


538 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


We  will  drive  away  the  curse 
That  the  liquor  sellers  bring. 
Voting  ever  for  No  License! 

We  will  crush  the  cruel  head 
Of  the  alcoholic  king, 

Voting  ever  for  No  License! 

We  have  God  upon  -our  side 
And  weTl  conquer  in  the  end. 
Voting  ever  for  No  License! 

He  is  stronger  than  the  foe. 

And  on  him  we  will  depend,  - 
Voting  ever  for  No  License! 

— Rev.  O.  R.  Miller. 


no  x.iCEi<rsz  is  our  teume. 


Tune:  “Yankee  Doodle.” 


Friends,  No  License  is  the  theme. 

We  Temp’rance  folks  delight  in; 
We’ll  write  it  down  to  fit  the  tune 
Our  fathers  made  for  fightin’. 

Chorus: 

Yes,  No  License  is  the  song. 

We’ll  shout  it  through  the  nation; 
Strict  No  License  to  the  wrong. 

Is  right  through  all  creation. 

If  you  want  to  stop  a man 

From  drinking  rum  and  brandy. 
Don’t  give  a license  to  the  shop 
That  keeps  it  always  handy. 

No  scoffs  of  foes  or  doubts  of  friends 
Shall  weaken  our  endeavor 
To  brand  the  traffic  with  disgrace. 
And  wipe  it  out  forever. 

— Rev.  O.  R.  Miller. 


A DAY  OP  WRATH. 


Tune:  “Battle  Cry  of  Freedom.” 


A day  of  wrath  is  waiting 

For  the  hosts  of  sin  and  shame. 

The  Lord  of  righteousness 

Shall  rise  and  glorify  His  name, 

He’s  coming  to  deliver 

As  in  days  of  old  He  came, 

With  glory  and  with  power! 

Chorus: 

Glory,  Glory,  Hallelujah! 

Glory,  Glory,  Hallelujah! 

Glory,  Glory,  Hallelujah! 

Our  God  will  come  with  power! 

No  more  our  Sabbaths  shall  for  work 
Of  sin  and  death  be  sold, 

No  more  our  treasuries  be  cursed 
With  sin-polluted  gold. 

No  more  our  prisons  shall 

The  fruits  of  licensed  liquor  hold. 
For  God  in  justice  reigns! 

The  w.ail  of  sufi’rin.g  ones 

Has  reached  th’  Omnipotent  on  high. 
And  He  who  never  fails  to  hear 
The  burdened  when  they  cry, 

Hath  sounded  forth  the  order 


That  the  cursed  saloon  must  die. 

For  God  in  mercy  reigns! 

Down  from  the  battlements  of  heav’n 
Has  been  heard  the  trumpet  call 
That  summons  forth  an  army 
On  the  hosts  of  sin  to  fall. 

And  the  sword  of  God  in  righteousness 
Shall  break  the  despot’s  thrall. 

For  God  in  triumph  reigns! 

— Rev.  O.  R.  Miller. 


HOED  THE  PORT  FOR  NO  EICENSE. 


Tune:  “Hold  the  Fort.” 


Ho!  my  comrades,  see  the  banner. 
Waving  in  the  sky! 

Re-inforcements  are  appearing. 

Victory  is  nigh! 

Chorus: 

Hold  the  fort  for  ico  License! 

Freedom  signals  still; 

Answer  back  to  her  petition, 

“By-  our  votes  we  will.” 

All  our  town  the  foe  engages! 

Let  not  freedom  lag! 

See!  the  battle  fiercely  rages! 

Rally  round  the  flag! 

By  the  land  our  fathers  bought  us. 

With  their  precious  blood! 

By  the  birth-rights  they  have  brought 
us. 

Stem  the  rum-tide's  flood! 

By  the  God  who  freedom  gave  us. 

With  immortal  souls. 

Crush  the  foe  who  dares  enslave  us; 
Forward  to  the  polls! 

—Rev.  O.  R.  Miller. 


HAH.  COLUMBIA. 

Hail  Columbia,  happy  land. 

Hail,  ye  heroes,  heav’n-born  band. 

Who  fought  and  bled  in  freedom's  cause. 
Who  fought  and  bled  in  freedom’s  cause. 
And  when  the  storm  of  war  was  gone. 
Enjoyed  the  peace  your  valor  won. 

Now  let  No  License  be  our  boast. 

Ever  mindful  what  it  cost. 

Ever  grateful  for  the  prize. 

Let  its  altar  reach  the  skies. 

Firm,  united  let  us  be. 

Rallying  ’round  our  liberty! 

As  a band  of  brothers  join’d. 

Peace  and  temp’rance  we  shall  find. 

Temperance  patriots!  rise  once  more! 
Defend  your  rights!  defend  your  shore! 
Let  no  rude  foe  with  rum-soaked  hand. 
Let  no  rude  foe  with  rum-soaked  hand. 
Invade  the  shrine  where  sacred  lies 
Of  toil  and  blood,  the  well  earn'd  prize. 
While  off'ring  peace  sincere  and  just. 

In  heaven  we  place  a manly  trust. 

That  truth  and  Temp’rance  may  prevail. 
And  every  scheme  of  bondage  fail. 

— Rev.  O.  R.  Miller. 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


539 


MOTTBITZH’CI-  AT  THE  OES  HEABTH- 
STOHE. 

Tune:  “Tenting  on  the  Old  CampGround.” 


They  are  mourning  to-night  at  the  old 
hearthstone, 

Give  them  a ray  of  hope; 

Their  weary  hearts  are  sad  and  lone, 
Through  deepening  sorrows  grope. 

CHORUS: 

Many  are  the  hearts  that  are  mourning 
to-night. 

Mourning  over  ruined  boys; 

Many  are  the  hearts  praying  for  the 
right. 

Though  robbed  of  all  life’s  joys. 
Mourning  to-night,  mourning  to-night. 
Mourning  at  the  old  hearthstone. 

They’re  weeping  to-night  at  the  old 
hearthstone. 

Weeping  for  loved  ones  lost; 

Bright  music  hushed  to  wail  and  moan; 
The  licensed  grog  shop’s  cost. 

There’s  anguish  to-night  at  the  old 
hearthstone. 

For  loved  ones  they  await 
Are  lured  and  wrecked  in  murder  mills. 
Maintained  by  church  and  state. 

They’re  calling  to-night  from  the  old 
hearthstone. 

List  to  the  plaintive  strain; 

Pleading  with  us  to  protect  their  boys 
Prom  a monster  worse  than  Spain. 

CHORUS: 

Many  are  the  hearts  that  are  breaking 
to-night. 

Breaking  over  ruined  boys; 

Many  are  the  hearts  praying  for  tne 
right. 

Though  robbed  of  all  life’s  joys. 
Breaking  to-night,  breaking  tc-nlght. 
Breaking  at  the  old  hearthstone. 

— F.  E.  Magraw. 

FROM  THE  MOVHTAZKS  TO  THE  SEA. 

Tune:  “Tramp,  Tramp,  Tramp.’’ 

Where  the  snow  is  on  the  pine. 

Where  the  summers  ne’er  decline. 
Where  the  empire  of  the  prairie  west- 
ward rolls. 

Ring  the  nation’s  war  with  rum. 

Not  with  cannon,  flag,  nor  drum. 

But  with  ballots  softly  falling  at  the 
polls. 

Refrain — 

Tramp,  tramp,  tramp,  the  cause  is 
marching. 

On,  on,  on  to  victory. 

But  the  fight  will  not  be  done, 

’Till  the  state  we  love  is  won. 

So  we’ll  push  it  from  the  mountains  to 
the  sea. 


I Towns  that  have  long  lain  appalled. 
Thronging  cities  rum-enthralled. 

Now  re-echo  with  the  struggle  to  be  free. 
’Tis  a fight  for  God  above. 

And  for  all  on  earth  we  love. 

So  we’ll  strike  for  God,  our  land,  and 
victory. 

Never  say  it  can’t  be  done. 

Faith  and  pluck  have  always  won. 

And  will  yet  the  mountains  move  into 
the  sea. 

God  is  on  His  judgment  throne. 

And  we  battle  not  alone; 

When  His  hour  has  struck  the  foe  will 
melt  and  flee. 

So  together  let  us  move; 

Faith  and  courage  let  us  prove; 

While  our  land  is  unredeemed  we  dare 
not  stay; 

Hoary,  proud,  our  every  state. 

Great  in  wrong,  in  good  more  great; 
Gird  us.  Lord,  to  cleanse  her  greatest 
wrong  away. 

— H.  H.  Barstow. 
Adapted  by  B.  R.  Shaw. 


VOTEB’S  CONSECBATION. 


“Take  my  vote,  and  let  it  be 
Consecrated,  Lord,  to  thee. 

Let  me  realize  now  my  power 
In  the  conflict  of  that  hour. 

Take  my  vote,  and  let  it  be 
Consecrated,  Lord,  to  thee. 

Guide  my  hand,  that  it  may  trace 
Crosses,  in  the  proper  place. 

Take  my  vote,  that  we  may  see 
Politics  controlled  by  Thee. 

This  to  Thee  I gladly  bring 

That  the  State  may  own  her  King.” 

— Selected. 


A TESITPEBAHCE  CASItPAlQTH  SOKQ. 

Tune:  “Rally  ’Round  the  Flag.” 

There’s  a crash  of  mighty  conflict 
Resounding  day  and  night, 

Ev’rywhere  proclaim  the  joyful  story; 
Watch  the  temperance  banners  waving 
In  the  thickest  of  the  fight. 

While  we  are  marching  on  to  glory. 

CHORUS: 

On  with  the  battle!  hurrah,  boys,  hurrah.’ 
Down  with  the  murder  mills,  and  up 
with  the  law! 

Oh,  we’ll  rally  round  the  ballot  box. 

And  we’ll  vote  just  as  we  pray, ' 
Shouting  the  battle  cry  of  temperance. 

Good  Templar  ranks  are  keeping  step. 
Their  hearts  are  brave  and  strong. 

While  they  are  marching  on  to  vict’ry; 
Against  the  liquor  tyrants  they 
Have  battled  hard  and  long. 

While  they  are  marching  on  to  vict’ry. 


540 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


The  women  wield  their  flashing  blades 
With  purpose  firm  and  true, 

While  they  are  marching  on  to  vict’ry; 
They  have  never  faltered  in  the  fight, 
The  W.  C.  T.  tJ. 

While  they  are  marching  on  to  vict’ry. 

The  young  folks-  now  are  on  the  field, 
The  noble  L.  T.  L., 

While  they  are  marching  on  to  vict’ry; 
They  will  never  know  surrender. 

They  are  firing  shot  and  shell. 

While  they  are  marching  on  to  vict’ry. 

Cheers  for  the  Anti-Saloon  League, 
Whose  hosts  are  in  the  fray. 

While  they  are  marching  on  to  vict’ry; 
They  will  never  cease  the  struggle  till 
The  right  has  gained  the  day. 

While  they  are  marching  on  to  vict’ry. 

See  the  Prohibition  heroes  as 
They  face  the  cruel  foe. 

While  they  are  marching  on  to  vicfry; 
They  are  hurling  back  the  rum-fiends 
With  every  crushing  blow. 

While  they  are  marching  on  to  vict’ry. 

Then  come  and  join  our  phalanx,  and 
We’ll  win  the  glorious  prize. 

While  we  are  marching  on  to  vict’ry; 
We  will  wage  the  righteous  conflict. 
Till  old  Gambrinus  dies. 

Yes,  we  are  marching  on  to  vict'ry. 

— Frank  P.  Reno. 


OTJK  COMllTO  BAWNEK. 


O say!  do  you  see  on  our  Star-spangled 
Flag, 

The  red  stains  of  a crime  that  dis- 
honors the  nation. 

Which  soon  in  its  course  would  to  in- 
famy drag 

And  make  of  our  land  one  vast  deso- 
lation? 

See  the  woe  and  despair!  hark!  what 
cries  fill  the  air. 

As  the  wide  flood  of  ruin  pours  on 
everywhere ! — - 

’Tis  the  curse  of  the  demon  that  fain 
would  enslave 

All  the  free,  and  defile  all  the  good 
and  the  brave. 

Long — long  doth  the  tyrant  his  iron 
sway  wield 

In  paths  drenched  in  blood,  law  and 
order  defying. 

Till  thousands  of  homes  of  the  drunk- 
ards are  filled 

With  vain  prayers  for  help  or  the 
groans  of  the  dying; 

Yet  the  lava  tide  flows,  amid  shrieks, 
wails  and  throes 

Of  victims  that  know  not  relief  nor  re- 
pose. 

And  still  the  striped  banner  in  mock- 
ery waves 

Over  millions  of  souls  rushing  on  to 
their  graves- 


O!  then  let  us  rise  in  our  God-given 
might 

To  drive  out  the  foe  with  all  his  pol- 
lution. 

With  prayers  and  with  ballots  to  urgi 
on  the  fight. 

And  courage  that  never  will  know 
diminution. 

So,  with  the  victory  blest  in  peace  we 
shall  rest. 

Assured  of  our  birthright  of  Freedom 
possessed. 

While  the  Star-spangled  Banner  in 
triumph  shall  wave 

O’er  the  land  of  the  free — the  pure — 
and  the  brave! 

— National  Advocate. 

SWEEPING  THE  BAND  WITH  PBO- 
HIEITION. 

Tune:  “Shouting  the  Battle  Cry  of 
' Freedom.” 


See  our  legions  marching  forth. 

East  and  West  and  South  and  North, 
Sweeping  the  land  with  Prohibition: 
As  the  light  dispels  the  gloom. 

As  dust  flies  before  the  broom. 

Sweeping  the  land  with  Prohibition! 

CHORUS: 

Yes!  Prohibition  will  do  the  work! 

And  we  our  duty  never  will  shirk! 
Lincoln’s  task  we’re  bound  to  do. 

Come  and  help  us  put  it  through — 
Sweeping  the  land  with  Prohibition! 

Lincoln  said  our  country  free 
From  the  power  of  Rum  must  be — 
That’s  what  we  mean  by  Prohibition! 
And  we’ll  vote  as  well  as  talk — 

Rum  the  plank  has  got  to  walk. 

That's  what  we  mean  by  Prohibition! 

When  the  men  will  vote  the  way. 
Christian  women  work  and  pray. 

We’ll  sweep  the  land  with  Prohibition! 
And  that  day  will  soon  be  here. 

With  the  end  of  Rum  and  Beer — 
Clean  swept  away  by  Prohibition! 

We  shall  fight  the  battle  out. 

And  shall  win  without  a doubt. 

Sweeping  the  land  with  Prohibition! 
And  the  gin-mills  soon  shall  be 
Scarce  as  snakes  in  Ireland — see? 

All  swept  away  by  Prohibition! 

— T.  C.  Marshall. 


EVUiS  OP  INTEaiPEBANCE. 

Tune:  “A  Charge  to  Keep  I Have.” 

“Mourn  for  the  thousands  slain, 

The  youthful  and  the  strong: 

Mourn  for  the  wine-cup’s  fearful  reign, 
And  the  deluded  throng. 

Mourn  for  the  lost, — but  call. 

Call  to  the  strong,  the  free: 

Rouse  them  to  shun  the  dreadful  fall. 
And  to  the  refuge  flee. 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


541 


Mourn  for  the  lost, — hut  pray, 

To  break  the  fell  destroyer’s  sway. 
And  show  his  saving  love.” 

Pray  to  our  God  above. 


OUR  BATTI.R  CR-Z-  RO  BICRRSE. 


Tune:  “Rally  Round  the  Flag.” 

We  will  rally  to  the  polls,  boys. 

We’ll  rally  once  again, 

Shouting  our  battle  cry,  No  License! 

We  will  rally  for  the  Home  till 
The  vict’ry  we  shall  gain, 

Shouting  our  battle  cry.  No  License! 

Chorus: 

No  license  for  ever!  Hurrah!  boys,  hur- 
rah! 

Down  with  the  rumshop,  away  with  the 
bar! 

So  we’ll  vote  now  for  protection 
Te  our  homes  and  to  our  boys, 
Shouting  our  battle-cry  No  License! 

Yes,  we’ll  vote  against  the  rumshop. 
We’ll  strike  a mighty  blow. 

Shouting  our  battle-cry  No  License! 

And  we’ll  crush  this  monster  evil — 
The  liquor  traffic — low. 

Shouting  our  battle-cry  No  License! 

Come,  we’re  going  to  the  polls,  boys. 
We’re  going  to  the  fight. 

Shouting  our  battle-cry  No  License! 

And  we’ll  cast  a heavy  vote 
In  the  name  of  God  and  Right, 

Shouting  our  battle-cry  No  License! 

— Rev.  O..  R.  Miller. 


THR  TRffirPERARCE  BARRRR. 


Tune:  “Star  Spangled  Banner.” 


Oh,  say,  can  you  see  by  the  dawn’s  early 
light 

What  so  long  we  have  hoped  for  with 
hearts  sorely  aching. 

The  swift  flash  of  the  sword  that  will 
fall  in  its  might. 

The  power  of  King  Alcohol  evermore 
breaking? 

Nay,  the  Wine-god’s  red  glare 
And  the  drunkard’s  wild  prayer 

Give  proof  thro’  the  night  that  the  curse 
is  still  there. 

Oh,  say,  does  the  Star  Spangled  Banner 
now  wave 

O’er  a land  of  the  free  and  the  home 
of  the  brave! 

Now  the  Truth’s  dimly  seen  thro’  the 
smoke  of  the  fray. 

Advancing  unharmed  where  the  dread 
foe  reposes. 

With  a sling  and  a stone  the  huge  giant 
she’ll  slay. 

Though  a demon-forged  armour  his  body 
encloses. 

Oh,  the  people  will  shout 
When  his  life-blood  ebbs  out, 

And  a million  rum  slaves  will  join  in 


the  rout; 

When  the  Star  Spangled  Banner  in  tri- 
umph doth  wave. 

O’er  a land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of 
the  brave! 

Then  where’ll  be  that  band  who  so 
vauntingly  swore, 

’Mid  the  havoc  of  rum  and  the  traffic’s 
confusion. 

The  homes  and  the  country  they’d  curse 
evermore? 

Our  votes  shall  wash  out  their  foul  foot- 
steps’ pollution; 

No  refuge  will  save 
Rumsellers  who  gave 

So  much  anguish  to  hearts  they  hav© 
sent  to  the  grave; 

Oh,  the  Star  Spangled  Banner,  long  may' 
it  wave. 

O’er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home 
of  the  brave! 

Oh,  thus  be  it  ever  when  freemen  shall 
stand 

Between  their  loved  homes  and  foul 
rum’s  desolation. 

Blest  with  Temp’ ranee  and  peace,  may 
our  heav’n  rescued  land 

Praise  the  Power  that  made  and  pre- 
served us  a nation. 

And  conquer  we  must. 

For  our  cause  it  is  just. 

And  this  be  our  motto;  “In  God  is  our 
trust.” 

And  the  Star  Spangled  Banner  in  triumph 
shall  wave. 

While  the  land  of  the  free  is  the  home 
of  the  brave. 

— Rev.  O.  R.  Miller. 


A CABB  TO  -WOREMBR. 


Tune:  “Showers  of  Blessing.” 


Heed  now  the  calls  of  the  nation. 
Louder  and  louder  they  speak. 

Banish  the  place  of  temptation. 

Act  for  the  sake  of  the  weak. 

Chorus: 

Rouse  ye,  (rouse  ye),  O workmen. 

Make  not  a moment’s  delay; 

Drive  from  your  pathway  the  rumshop. 
Which  curses  you  day  after  day. 

What’s  your  great  curse,  O ye  work- 
men? 

Who  is  your  most  bitter  foe? 

None  is  so  foul  as  the  rum-shop, 
Bringing  you  nothing  but  woe. 

Strength  in  your  muscles  and  sinews 
Is  needed  your  work  to  command. 
Alcohol  takes  away  vigor. 

Weakens  the  brain  and  the  hand. 

Mill,  or  the  shop,  or  the  fact’ry. 

All  of  your  strength  may  require. 

Yet  the  saloon  would  fain  rob  you 
Of  strength  with  its  liquid  of  fire. 

— Rev.  O.  R.  Miller. 


542 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


THE  KO-LICEHSE  EANNEB. 


Tune:  “Star  Spangled  Banner.” 


Oh,  say,  did  you  see  on  the  brow  of  the 
night. 

That  star  like  a watch-fire  so  tranquilly 
burning? 

’Tis  the  day-beam  of  hope  and  the  prom- 
ise of  light. 

And  joy  to  the  hearts  of  the  wretched 
returning. 

Then  away  to  the  fields. 

With  our  standard  and  shields, 

Our  cause  is  progressing,  the  tyrant 
must  yield; 

And  the  No-license  banner  in  triumph 
shall  wave 

O’er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home 
of  the  brave! 

Though  strong  is  our  foe,  let  us  work 
with  our  might. 

The  arrows  of  death  from  his  quiver  de- 
scending; 

We’ll  haste  to  the  ground,  while  we 
boldly  unite. 

Our  cause  with  the  vigor  of  heroes  de- 
fending; 

Our  colors  unfold, 

For  we  still  do  behold 

The  day-beam  of  hope  in  its  beauty  un- 
told. 

And  the  No-license  banner  in  triumph 
shall  wave 

O’er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home 
of  the  brave! 

Then  where’ll  be  the  band  who  so 
vauntingly  boast 

That  the  price  of  men’s  souls  is  their 
lawful  possession? 

They  will  join  in  the  ranks  of  the  tem- 
perance host, 

Ashamed  of  the  traffic  and  glad  of  re- 
pression. 

Even  now  we  can  see 

What  most  surely  will  be — 

With  No-license  the  watchword  from 
sea  unto  sea. 

For  the  No-license  banner  in  triumph 
shall  wave 

O’er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home 
of  the  brave! 

Oh,  thus  be  it  e’er  when  true  freemen 
shall  stand 

With  their  votes  to  repel  the  rum  fiend’s 
desolation; 

Then  shall  women  and  children  with  up- 
lifted hand 

Praise  the  Power  that  has  made  us  a 
Temperance  nation! 

Then  conquer  we  must. 

For  our  cause  it  is  just; 

And  this  is  our  motto:  “In  God  we  will 
trust.” 

And  the  No-license  banner,  O,  long 
may  it  wave 

O’er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home 
of  the  brave! 

— Rev.  O.  R.  Miller. 


THE  GOOD  TIME  COMIHG. 


Tune:  “Sweet  By  and  By.” 


There’s  a time  that  is  coming  at  last — 
Oh!  hasten  that  long-looked-for  day. 
When  the  rum  fiend  no  shackles  shall 
cast. 

For  all  Christians  shall  vote  as  they 
pray. 

Chorus: 

It  will  come,  by  and  by. 

We  shall  welcome  that  beautiful  day! 
It  will  come,  by  and  by, 

When  all  Christians  will  vote  as  they 
pray. 

When  the  fire  shall  go  out  at  the  still. 
And  the  worm  shall  be  taken  away; 
And  its  ruins  give  place  to  the  mill. 
Making  bread  that  doth  hunger  allay. 

And  the  prisons  shall  close  every  door. 
And  the  poorhouses  empty  shall  stand. 
When  the  dram  shop  shall  curse  never- 
more 

The  dear  Homes  of  our  beautiful  land. 

When  the  Church  and  the  State  shall 
arise 

In  the  strength  of  their  virtue  and 
might. 

And  improve  every  moment  that  flies, 

In  their  working  and  voting  for  right. 

— Rev.  O.  R.  Miller. 


EIGHT  or  TBUTH  IS  BSEAHIHG. 


Tune:  “Battle  Hymn  of  the  Republic.” 


The  light  of  truth  is  breaking. 

On  the  mountain  tops  it  gleams: 

Let  it  flash  along  the  valleys. 

Let  it  glitter  on  our  streams. 

Till  all  the  land  awakens. 

In  its  flush  of  golden  beams; 

Our  cause  is  marching  on. 

Chorus: 

Glory,  Glory,  Hallelujah! 

Glory,  Glory,  Hallelujah! 

Glory,  Glory.  Hallelujah! 

Our  cause  is  marching  on. 

With  purpose  strong  and  steady. 

In  the  great  Jehovah’s  name. 

We  rise  to  snatch  our  kindred 

From  the  depths  of  woe  and  shame; 

And  the  jubilee  of  freedom 
To  the  slaves  of  sin  proclaim: 

Our  cause  is  marching  on. 

Our  strength  is  in  Jehovah,  and 
Our  cause  is  in  his  care: 

With  Almighty  God  to  help  us. 

We  have  faith  to  do  and  dare. 

While  confiding  in  the  premise 

That  the  Lord  will  answer  prayer: 

Our  cause  is  marching  on. 

From  morning’s  early  watches 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


543 


Till  the  setting  of  the  sun, 

We’ll  never  flag  nor  falter, 

In  the  work  we  have  begun. 

Till  the  rumshops  have  surrendered 
And  the  victory  is  won: 

Our  cause  is  marching  on. 

— Rev.  O.  R.  Miller. 


STOKM  THE  TORT  FOR  NO  LICENSE. 


Tune:  “Hold  the  Fort.” 


Hark!  ye  voters,  hear  the  bugle 
Calling  to  the  fray; 

Let  No  License  be  our  watchword, 
Right  shall  win  the  day. 

Chorus: 

Storm  the  fort  now  for  No  license. 
Captives  signal  still; 

Answer  back  to  their  petition, 

“By  our  votes  we  will.” 

See  the  rum-shops’  haughty  banner 
On  the  fortress  wall. 

Hurl  the  temp’rance  ballots  ’gainst  It 
Till  the  ramparts  fall. 

Face  the  grog-shops’  bold  deflance. 
Never  fear  or  quail; 

Coward  foes  will  soon  surrender; 
Voters!  do  not  fail. 

Fierce  and  long  the  siege  has  lasted. 
But  the  end  draws  near; 

Onward  leads  our  great  Commander; 
Cheer,  O comrades,  cheer! 

— Rev.  O.  R.  Miller. 


BRAVE  TEMPERANCE  MEN. 


Tune:  “My  Maryland.” 

The  foe  is  great,  but  ye  are  strong. 
Temperance  Men!  Brave  Temperance 
Men! 

The  fight  is  fierce  and  may  be  long. 
Temperance  Men!  Brave  Temperance 
Men! 

Remember  Haddock’s  sacred  dust. 

Remember  Dow’s  incisive  thrust, 

Remember  all  the  heroes  just. 

Temperance  Men!  Brave  Temperance 
Men! 

Then  strike  the  foe  with  all  your  soul. 
Temperance  Men!  Brave  Temperance 
Men! 

Ye  must  not  yield  to  his  control. 

Temperance  Men!  Brave  Temperance 
Men! 

A martyr’s  fate  you  may  receive, 

’Twere  better  thus  souls  to  relieve. 

Than  rum  should  live  souls  to  deceive. 
Temperance  Men!  Brave  Temperance 
Men! 

I see  your  courage  in  the  eye. 

Temperance  Men!  Brave  Temperance 
Men! 

Though  meek,  you’re  not  afraid  to  die. 


Temperance  Men!  Brave  Temperance 
Men ! 

For  life  or  death,  for  weal  or  woe. 

Seize  now  the  sword  of  truth  and  show 
Tour  courage  ’gainst  this  deadly  foe. 
Temperance  Men!  Brave  Temperance 
Men! 


I hear  the  distant  thunder  hum. 

Temperance  Men!  Brave  Temperance 
Men! 

We  soon  shall  banish  wine  and  rum. 
Temperance  Men!  Brave  Temperance 
Men! 

Come  to  thine  own  heroic  throng 
That  stalks  with  liberty  along. 

And  ring  this  dauntless  slogan  song, 
“Rum  shall  go,  yes,  rum  shall  go.” 

— Rev.  O.  R.  Miller. 


’W’E’LL  BO  ANO  BARE. 


Tune:  “America.” 


Come,  raise  your  banners  high. 
And  join  our  battle  cry;  II 
“No  license  here.” 

Come,  swell  the  valiant  throng 
Who  fight  against  the  wrong. 

And  shout  the  rallying  song: 
"We’ll  dare  and  do.” 

The  foe  is  fierce  and  strong; 

The  conflict  may  be  long; 

But  we’ll  be  true. 

We’ve  ’listed  for  the  fight. 

Our  cause  is  just  and  right. 
Strong  in  our  Captain’s  might. 
We’ll  dare  and  do. 

Ye  gallant  temp’rance  host. 

Stand  firm  at  duty’s  post. 

The  fight  renew; 

We’ll  never  give  up  the  strife. 
E’en  though  with  danger  rife; 
While  God  shall  give  us  life 
We’ll  dare  and  do. 

— Rev.  O.  R.  Miller. 


CRUSH  THE  MONSTER. 


Tune:  “Swanee  River.” 


There  lurks  a poison  in  the  wine  cup. 
Foul,  though  unseen; 

Full  many  a heart  is  filled  with  sorrow, 
• Many  lives  are  made  unclean. 

Chorus: 

Why  then,  wait  a moment  longer? 

Rally  in  your  might — 

Act,  tliat  your  zeal  may  grow  the 
stronger; 

Strike,  for  our  cause  is  right. 

See  how  the  home  is  filled  with  terror; 

Mark  children’s  tears! 

Note  how  the  curse  brings  sighs  from 
mothers. 

Crushed  by  their  ceaseless  fears. 


544 


STORIES  OF  HELL’S  COMMERCE 


All  sacred  rights  to  earth  are  trampled, 
God’s  law  transgressed; 

All  holy  instincts  lost,  forgotten. 
Bringing  only  sad  unrest. 

— Rev.  O.  R.  Miller. 


BABB  ViTB  ZtlCBlTSB? 


Tune:  “Mendon.” 


Dare  we  license  give  to  sin. 

Or  sanction  that  which  God  abhors? 
When  evil  like  a flood  comes  in; 
Against  it  let  us  shut  our  doors. 

A compromise  with  this  dread  foe 
"To  make,  no  liberty  is  given; 

Let  magistrates  and  rulers  know 
How  to  respect  the  laws  of  heaven. 

Must  law  or  its  transgressors  yield? 

Shall  right  succumb  and  law  abound? 
Rather  round  virtue  cast  a shield, 

And  by  her  claims  let  all  be  bound. 


FBAYBB  FOB  BIGHT  ANB  HBBF. 


Tune;  “Revive  Us  Again.” 


O,  Lord,  give  us  light,  give  us  wisdom, 
we  pray; 

Give  us  strength  for  the  work  we  are 
doing  to-day. 

Chorus: 

Come  and  help  us,  blessed  Saviour, 
All  powerful  art  Thou; 

Thine  the  glory.  Thine  the  vict’ry. 
Come  and  help  us  just  now. 

Though  weak  in  ourselves,  yet  in  Thee, 
we  are  strong,  , 

For  Thou  art  our  strength,  our  salva- 
tion, our  song. 

For  the  slaves  of  the  cup.  Lord,  we  cry 
unto  Thee; 

Oh!  loose  them  from  bondage,  and  let 
them  go  free. 

Oh!  visit  their  souls  in  their  darkness 
and  night. 

And  wake  them  from  slumber  to  free- 
dom and  light. 

Thy  presence.  Thy  power.  Thy  wisdom 
we  seek; 

Lord,  lift  up  the  fallen  and  strengthen 
the  weak. 

— Rev.  O.  R.  Miller. 


BIBXB  BABB  FOB  TBMFBBABCB. 


Tune:  “Dixie.” 


The  Temperance  wave  o’er  the  South  am 
spreadin’ ; 

It  is  what  saloons  am  dreadin’. 

Look  away!  Look  away! 

Look  away!  Dixie  land. 

In  Dixie  land  whar  I was  born  in. 

People  are  ’gainst  rum  a stormin’, 


Chorus: 

Look  away!  Look  away! 

Look  away!  Dixie  land. 

Den  I wish  I was  in  Dixie, 

Hooray!  Hooray! 

In  Dixie  land.  I’ll  take  my  stand, 

To  lib  and  die  in  Dixie, 

Away,  away,  away,  down  South  in  Dixie 

The  massa  used  to  have  liquor  plenty. 
All  young  bloods  drank  gin  at  twenty. 
Look  away,  etc. 

But  things  dov/n  there  am  all  a changin’ 
Temperance  guns  ’gainst  rum  am  rangin’ 
Look  away,  etc.  Cho. 

Down  South  they  fight  it  by  local  option- 
‘No  rum  sold  by  our  adoption.” 

Look  away,  etc. 

That  motto  should  all  men  inspire 
To  rise  and  fight  this  rum-fiend’s  fire. 
Look  away,  etc.  Cho. 

— Rev.  O.  R.  Miller. 


BATTBB  CBY  OF  TEMFEBABCE. 


Tune:  “Battle  Cry  of  Freedom.” 


We  will  rally  with  our  might. 

To  the  great  and  glorious  fight. 
Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  Temp'rance! 
We  will  deal  a fatal  blow 
To  this  great  insidious  foe. 

Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  Temp’rance! 

Chorus; 

Cold  water  for  ever! 

Away  with  the  wine! 

For  us  its  false  glitter  no  longer  shall 
shine. 

Here  we'll  sign  the  pledge  anew. 

And  we  promise  to  be  true. 

Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  Temp'rance! 

Long  has  Alcohol  held  sway; 

But  we  ll  drive  the  fiend  away. 
Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  Temp’rance! 
We  will  break  the  poisoned  bowl. 
Which  doth  ruin  mind  and  soul. 
Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  Temp’rance! 

Now’s  the  day  and  now’s  the  hour; 

Let  us  break  the  wine-cup’s  power. 
Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  Temp’rance! 
Gird  the  armor  on  anew. 

Be  in  earnest  and  be  true. 

Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  Temp’rance! 

— Rev.  O.  R.  Miller. 


TEMFEBABCE  BOXOBOG'S’. 


Tune:  “Old  Hundred." 


Praise  God  from  whom  all  blessings 
fiow. 

Praise  Him  who  heals  the  drunkard’s 
woe; 

Praise  Him  who  leads  the  Temp’rance 
host; 

Praise  Father,  Son  and  Holy  Ghost. 

— Rev.  O.  R.  Miller. 


AUSTIN  BOOK  SHOP 
BERNARD  TITOWSKY 
82-64  AUSTIN  ST. 
KEW  GARDENS  14,  N. 
AMERICAN  HISTORY 


